http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0eoPJoN5KJQ
this is an excellent example of bulerias por fiesta. it is also one of the weirdest and funniest things
I've seen. All those noises they make are really typical.
Friday, September 30, 2011
I worked one hour today. For the first time since May 31st, 2010. Well, with the exception of looking after a certain rabbit last fall, which I don't know if I would really call work, but I was kindly paid for it... Yes, May 31st was the day I wrote on my official resignation notice to Langara. Fortunately, I am starting work on a day that actually exists, a year and some months later. I don't know how much money this will make me - probably not enough to get by on, but you never know. It is a start.
I woke up unthinkably early, at 7:30 and went to Barrio Santa Cruz to meet Maria at her tienda. She had slept in, so told me to wait for her at the Bodega Belmonte, one of the restaurants I took a business card for, because the food was so good, when Sarah and Andrea came to visit. On the street that is perhaps the most touristy in all of Sevilla, the tourists had not yet appeared for the day, and various locals lucky enough to live or work near this Barrio were having tostadas with aceite (toast with olive oil) and coffee.
Maria told me to quit calling her "Usted", and then we fell easily into a conversation about the general direction our lives had taken, with mention of the major events. Maria received several pieces of beautiful cloth and balls of thread (which were in balls in those days and not on spools, she explained) when she was very, very young, for Christmas (from the three Kings - not Santa Claus). She was completely "encantada" by these, and from that time she has loved sewing and beautiful cloth.
Maria is a kindred spirit, and one of the few people I've felt so comfortable with immediately. She says "live is to be lived" and you have to do what makes you happy. She works hard but seems completely motivated by her projects, and obviously loves what she's doing. According to her, people here are close-minded. She has been kicked out of a convent, and has lived in Paris for a year in 1976, the same year Franco died, doing all sorts of jobs. From her stories, life experience, and manner, I feel she would not judge me for some of the directions my life has taken.
On the way to her apartment, we stop by her brother's shop. It is probably the most impressive place I've ever been in, for things of "design". There is furniture, light fixtures and lamps, art and wooden structures that have been or could be built into walls. Many of the pieces are what I would call architecturally designed. They are not merely fashionable. They are fascinating, high quality and probably one of a kind. They have price tags that probably deserve to be as high as they are. The place is slightly on the intimidating side - the opposite of Maria and her little shop. As we leave she points out a painting of bull-fighters in a ring, done by Lola Flores - one of the most famous flamenco dancers, also an actrice in old Andalucian movies.
She has a semi-industrial machine in her apartment on the second floor of a building across from the river, near the Puente Triana. From the tiny balcony, there is a view of the river with a palm tree in front of it, and the bridge.
She leaves me to sew and goes to open the shop. When I am almost done a young guy is suddenly standing in front of me with a surprised look on his face. "Hola, soy Ana," I say. It is her son, who did not know why he heard the sewing machine going.
I manage to do it all in an hour and bring them to the shop in time to run to the studio to practice.
Last night when I was supposed to start, Maria had not managed to bring the machine to the shop, because the table it is attached to is really huge. So I sat there while a constant trickle of people dropped by to chat or stopped in to browse. We helped an Argentinian couple choose a dress for the woman, because they had not expected weather still so hot at this time of year, and I met a woman about the same age as Maria (same age as my mom) from Paris who was in the process of "installing" herself here. This lady had already lived in Sevilla 5 years and no longer had much of a noticeable French accent. She had taught French there, and had lived in Africa, Morocco, and who knows where else, doing various things including some journalism. A big African lady with a striking outfit came in selling "silver" jewelry that Maria had already got on the shelf, and tried to sell Maria more of it. Despite the lady's pushiness, Maria wasn't bothered in the least and told me later how "encantada" she was of how this lady sometimes does her hair in a big scarf, and what a doll her daughter was, and what "gracia" she has (gracia is used to mean both funny; comedic, and graceful, or artful). I am always a little confused when I hear this word and usually assume that the person being described has a mixture of comedy and gracefulness.
I woke up unthinkably early, at 7:30 and went to Barrio Santa Cruz to meet Maria at her tienda. She had slept in, so told me to wait for her at the Bodega Belmonte, one of the restaurants I took a business card for, because the food was so good, when Sarah and Andrea came to visit. On the street that is perhaps the most touristy in all of Sevilla, the tourists had not yet appeared for the day, and various locals lucky enough to live or work near this Barrio were having tostadas with aceite (toast with olive oil) and coffee.
Maria told me to quit calling her "Usted", and then we fell easily into a conversation about the general direction our lives had taken, with mention of the major events. Maria received several pieces of beautiful cloth and balls of thread (which were in balls in those days and not on spools, she explained) when she was very, very young, for Christmas (from the three Kings - not Santa Claus). She was completely "encantada" by these, and from that time she has loved sewing and beautiful cloth.
Maria is a kindred spirit, and one of the few people I've felt so comfortable with immediately. She says "live is to be lived" and you have to do what makes you happy. She works hard but seems completely motivated by her projects, and obviously loves what she's doing. According to her, people here are close-minded. She has been kicked out of a convent, and has lived in Paris for a year in 1976, the same year Franco died, doing all sorts of jobs. From her stories, life experience, and manner, I feel she would not judge me for some of the directions my life has taken.
On the way to her apartment, we stop by her brother's shop. It is probably the most impressive place I've ever been in, for things of "design". There is furniture, light fixtures and lamps, art and wooden structures that have been or could be built into walls. Many of the pieces are what I would call architecturally designed. They are not merely fashionable. They are fascinating, high quality and probably one of a kind. They have price tags that probably deserve to be as high as they are. The place is slightly on the intimidating side - the opposite of Maria and her little shop. As we leave she points out a painting of bull-fighters in a ring, done by Lola Flores - one of the most famous flamenco dancers, also an actrice in old Andalucian movies.
She has a semi-industrial machine in her apartment on the second floor of a building across from the river, near the Puente Triana. From the tiny balcony, there is a view of the river with a palm tree in front of it, and the bridge.
She leaves me to sew and goes to open the shop. When I am almost done a young guy is suddenly standing in front of me with a surprised look on his face. "Hola, soy Ana," I say. It is her son, who did not know why he heard the sewing machine going.
I manage to do it all in an hour and bring them to the shop in time to run to the studio to practice.
Last night when I was supposed to start, Maria had not managed to bring the machine to the shop, because the table it is attached to is really huge. So I sat there while a constant trickle of people dropped by to chat or stopped in to browse. We helped an Argentinian couple choose a dress for the woman, because they had not expected weather still so hot at this time of year, and I met a woman about the same age as Maria (same age as my mom) from Paris who was in the process of "installing" herself here. This lady had already lived in Sevilla 5 years and no longer had much of a noticeable French accent. She had taught French there, and had lived in Africa, Morocco, and who knows where else, doing various things including some journalism. A big African lady with a striking outfit came in selling "silver" jewelry that Maria had already got on the shelf, and tried to sell Maria more of it. Despite the lady's pushiness, Maria wasn't bothered in the least and told me later how "encantada" she was of how this lady sometimes does her hair in a big scarf, and what a doll her daughter was, and what "gracia" she has (gracia is used to mean both funny; comedic, and graceful, or artful). I am always a little confused when I hear this word and usually assume that the person being described has a mixture of comedy and gracefulness.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Home
When you feel so relieved you could cry, I think it must mean it is the right decision.
I am going to live with Mercedes and her dog. Mercedes lives on the top floor of a 3 story apartment building. I will have a room with a double bed, and a tiny balcony, just enough to have potted plants on. There will be tons of light and a little view. The apartment is small, but it has an oven. The rooftop has an amazing view of a church closeby.
I looked at another apartment which was utterly wonderful. I told the guy - a very sweet, clean guy, that I would take it. But it didn't feel right, and I knew in the pit of my stomach that I should chose Mercedes, despite the dog and the possibility that she might watch people dying in other countries on TV at lunch. I spent last night in practical agony, due to knowing that I made the wrong choice and would have to tell the guy (Francisco) that I wouldn't take it after all.
If my life were much more stable, and I were sure that I would find a good job, I might feel better living in a more normal apartment. I would have had it practically to myself, due to Francisco not being there much. It was decorate in a way that suit me perfectly. It had a nice large room and double bed, slightly bigger living room, perfect kitchen with oven as well, and an utterly wonderful tiny balcony that looked out on a narrow alley with a vine with pink flowers hanging off the opposing building. But I felt like I needed a nice older lady to live with, and Mercedes place is slightly cheaper too.
I would not have chosen to live with any old older lady, as some could be pesky, but she assured me she didn't mind what I did, doesn't meddle, and is easy going. I could tell. She also assured me she would not be watching dead bodies while we ate, and that her dog is very cariñoso (sweet/loving/nice/cute). Mercedes is not all that old - probably 60 at maximum. She has a son that is a fair bit younger than me, and she is a widow.
The other decision was something that came up about 2 weeks ago, but was put into motion on Monday night. I must have been the happiest person in Barrio Santa Cruz. When I walked out of Maria's shop I was smiling hugely and could hardly help being utterly overjoyed. I am going to her shop tomorrow to start sewing. I don't think it will be enough money to live on, and I don't know how sporadic it might be but I am so happy to be able to earn a little bit of money doing something I am pretty much totally comfortable with. I have no moral, philosophical or emotional qualms about sewing bags for her shop. I do not care that I will be like a production worker (on a small scale!). I don't think it is unreasonable what she is offering for the work, and besides, it will not be in a factory! For now, it will be in a corner of her wonderful little shop in the most beautiful neighborhood in Sevilla.
Maria is a very creative lady that sells a very small amount of select clothing and very stylish accessories, some of which she designs and makes herself. She is currently figuring out how best to make these cloth roses out of crinkly fabric, and was sitting in her shop twisting the fabric and sewing it shut, and planning to wash and dry it while twisted, to crinkle it adequately.
I forget if I mentioned how Maria found me: About two weeks ago I walked into her shop. I'd been there months before. She asked me out of the blue if I spoke French. Then she asked where I was from and what I was doing there, and as soon as I said I was looking for work and wanted to stay, she asked if I could sew. We waited till the end of the month, as I'd applied to all the English academies. Not a single one has bitten, despite sounding like one or two might. It is really impossible here without EU papers unless you are very determined. I hope to either figure out how to teach private English classes, or else work in an Irish bar or something. I still have not got the nerve up to go ask. Alfonso Chavez has two people working for him already, and my hand was not good enough to try to get into that sort of work yet.
I am going to live with Mercedes and her dog. Mercedes lives on the top floor of a 3 story apartment building. I will have a room with a double bed, and a tiny balcony, just enough to have potted plants on. There will be tons of light and a little view. The apartment is small, but it has an oven. The rooftop has an amazing view of a church closeby.
I looked at another apartment which was utterly wonderful. I told the guy - a very sweet, clean guy, that I would take it. But it didn't feel right, and I knew in the pit of my stomach that I should chose Mercedes, despite the dog and the possibility that she might watch people dying in other countries on TV at lunch. I spent last night in practical agony, due to knowing that I made the wrong choice and would have to tell the guy (Francisco) that I wouldn't take it after all.
If my life were much more stable, and I were sure that I would find a good job, I might feel better living in a more normal apartment. I would have had it practically to myself, due to Francisco not being there much. It was decorate in a way that suit me perfectly. It had a nice large room and double bed, slightly bigger living room, perfect kitchen with oven as well, and an utterly wonderful tiny balcony that looked out on a narrow alley with a vine with pink flowers hanging off the opposing building. But I felt like I needed a nice older lady to live with, and Mercedes place is slightly cheaper too.
I would not have chosen to live with any old older lady, as some could be pesky, but she assured me she didn't mind what I did, doesn't meddle, and is easy going. I could tell. She also assured me she would not be watching dead bodies while we ate, and that her dog is very cariñoso (sweet/loving/nice/cute). Mercedes is not all that old - probably 60 at maximum. She has a son that is a fair bit younger than me, and she is a widow.
The other decision was something that came up about 2 weeks ago, but was put into motion on Monday night. I must have been the happiest person in Barrio Santa Cruz. When I walked out of Maria's shop I was smiling hugely and could hardly help being utterly overjoyed. I am going to her shop tomorrow to start sewing. I don't think it will be enough money to live on, and I don't know how sporadic it might be but I am so happy to be able to earn a little bit of money doing something I am pretty much totally comfortable with. I have no moral, philosophical or emotional qualms about sewing bags for her shop. I do not care that I will be like a production worker (on a small scale!). I don't think it is unreasonable what she is offering for the work, and besides, it will not be in a factory! For now, it will be in a corner of her wonderful little shop in the most beautiful neighborhood in Sevilla.
Maria is a very creative lady that sells a very small amount of select clothing and very stylish accessories, some of which she designs and makes herself. She is currently figuring out how best to make these cloth roses out of crinkly fabric, and was sitting in her shop twisting the fabric and sewing it shut, and planning to wash and dry it while twisted, to crinkle it adequately.
I forget if I mentioned how Maria found me: About two weeks ago I walked into her shop. I'd been there months before. She asked me out of the blue if I spoke French. Then she asked where I was from and what I was doing there, and as soon as I said I was looking for work and wanted to stay, she asked if I could sew. We waited till the end of the month, as I'd applied to all the English academies. Not a single one has bitten, despite sounding like one or two might. It is really impossible here without EU papers unless you are very determined. I hope to either figure out how to teach private English classes, or else work in an Irish bar or something. I still have not got the nerve up to go ask. Alfonso Chavez has two people working for him already, and my hand was not good enough to try to get into that sort of work yet.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Lack of money requires inventiveness. Tonight my bad wine has become tinto de verano, Ana style. Squeeze a little orange and lemon wedges into it and add water.
More inventiveness:
Ghetto sink plug. The upside down cup over the drain kept falling over and I needed something heavy to set on top of it. For lack of a stone, I used a honey jar.
Here is my street. I live on the left at the sign for the bar (under us). Still charming compared to Surrey or something. At least outside.
And here is the corner:
And here is the open door on the side, during open hours. "Capirotes a Medida". Pointy hats with holes for the eyes, to measure.
Ghetto rooftop view.
Panorama:
Nothing to do with the ghetto:
An abaceria that I used to go to. It has been closed since August. The sign says, "quesos, chacinas..." other stuff. They sell specialty things, like nice cheese and sausage, canned stuff, wine. They have a tiny shelf with stools, and a bench outside and you can order a beer to hang out there.
Calle Sol:
Walking down my street is an effort in maintaining your Zen state under pressure. Every few moments, another car wants to pass and you have to try to walk on the sidewalk. I get annoyed and think that they should all just be walking! I often make them wait until I get to a wider part. You are always worried about the mirrors hitting you and you have to scrunch yourself against the wall. This is not uncommon on many streets. It has nothing to do with living in a ghetto. The other houses on this street are normal.
The ghetto has to do with the two guys who own the place. One of them that I heard is supposedly in charge of the apartment, is about 50. He lifts weights and wears clothes that show off his muscles. He is a really nice person to talk to but kind of a good for nothing. His mother still does his laundry.
Okay, going to work now. My dinner, huge pot of rice with cabbage, is finishing on the stove. 10:45 and I can expect at least Sherie home at some point. Although she will be going to the Coralon tonight as that is where her studio is. There is apparently going to be a big gathering there. These gatherings she witnesses in the wee hours of the morning are where professionals secretly gather and do the real stuff (flamenco, I mean). She showed me her studio today. It is right across the gravel lot from my garage where I practice. She is a pretty fascinating person. She sketches first in charcoal or something. Then she takes a paintbrush made out of long curly human hair. She turns on music and stands over the paper, which is on the floor, and makes these amazing paintings full of intense movement, with a lot of splattering. She also does normal paintings and is quite skilled, I believe. She is going to have an exhibition here soon, and has clients who pay fairly big money, when they finally decide not to keep her hanging. She is the one who used to be an engineer making lots of money in Silicon Valley.
More inventiveness:
Here is my street. I live on the left at the sign for the bar (under us). Still charming compared to Surrey or something. At least outside.
Calle Sol:
The ghetto has to do with the two guys who own the place. One of them that I heard is supposedly in charge of the apartment, is about 50. He lifts weights and wears clothes that show off his muscles. He is a really nice person to talk to but kind of a good for nothing. His mother still does his laundry.
Okay, going to work now. My dinner, huge pot of rice with cabbage, is finishing on the stove. 10:45 and I can expect at least Sherie home at some point. Although she will be going to the Coralon tonight as that is where her studio is. There is apparently going to be a big gathering there. These gatherings she witnesses in the wee hours of the morning are where professionals secretly gather and do the real stuff (flamenco, I mean). She showed me her studio today. It is right across the gravel lot from my garage where I practice. She is a pretty fascinating person. She sketches first in charcoal or something. Then she takes a paintbrush made out of long curly human hair. She turns on music and stands over the paper, which is on the floor, and makes these amazing paintings full of intense movement, with a lot of splattering. She also does normal paintings and is quite skilled, I believe. She is going to have an exhibition here soon, and has clients who pay fairly big money, when they finally decide not to keep her hanging. She is the one who used to be an engineer making lots of money in Silicon Valley.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Manuel Agujetas
I do not feel that I would be exaggerating in the least to say that Manuel Agujetas is one of the most fascinating people currently alive on the face of the earth.
You may not like him, but I believe those that cannot appreciate him at all do not like what flamenco really is; or maybe do not understand where flamenco came from. I did not like him when I started flamenco. It took many years to understand. Some of the best tastes are acquired ones, though.
My friend Gary, a guitarist who now lives in Vancouver, lived with him and his family in the 80s, and has been a close friend. Gary comes from the Deep South, and has a background in blues. That is probably part of the reason that he understands and appreciates the Agujetas family.
Tonight I have been listening to an old documentary on Agujetas.
Manuel comes from a family of blacksmiths, and worked as one until he was about 30, I believe. This was a very typical profession for gitanos. In his father's generation, the gitanos were often very poor, and the ones who did flamenco would be asked or demanded to sing or play for the wealthy or powerful in the town, and given very little money. His father was hit by the "señoritos" if he didn't want to sing.
He says that he went to school once, but pretty much hated the place and went running out, never to return. He thinks that if a person knows how to read and write, they can't sing flamenco, because they lose their good pronunciation. He does not know where or when he was born: it could be one of two cities, and within a 2 year time period. "No soy de ningun lao," he says in the documentary. (I am not from anywhere). This is not normal with gitanos in Spain. They have all been settled for a long time, and are not like other "gypsies" in Europe at all.
The very first word that comes to mind to describe his singing is "raw". In Spanish, the word is "rancio". It is the same as it's twin in English, though the meaning is not always so bad. It means mellow, for wine, rancid, for butter, ancient, for other things, unpleasant, for people. I don't care to have anyone explain the exact meaning as applied to cante, because I think it's obvious from these cues and from hearing this kind of singing. A combination of all those English words probably describes it well.
Agujetas is quoted in my Historia Social de Flamenco as saying that Carmen Amaya (one of the most famous dancers in the entire history of flamenco) was an "india que daba saltos" (an indio is what gitanos call each other at times - referring to the old mistaken Spanish word for Latin Americans, like its English translation. Except that the gitanos are believed to have really come from India). She was an "indian jumping around", and that is why the Americans liked her. He has been known to say "solo me gusta yo" (I only like myself - as a flamenco singer).
When questioned about the Franco government, which many flamenco people had trouble with, being poor, exploited, and left-leaning, he says, "Yo soy Espanol, pero me da igual Espana. Yo no vivo de gobiernos ni de nadie. Yo soy libre, ahora y con Franco" (I am Spanish but I don't care about Spain. I don't live by governments or by anybody. I am free, now and under Franco.)
And about his life in the countryside with his Japanese wife: "I am the freest man in the world."
Critics and flamencologists describe him as being an anachronism; belonging to another time.
His face is wild: there are gold teeth and a knife wound scar across his cheek. His eyes seem to be looking through everything a lot of the time, and him and his sister have a common way of singing, almost as if they are possessed. I don't think there are many others who even have a jaleo (shout between verses, to the guitarist) to match his.
The essence of flamenco is to find an expression for the most intense things you have inside, particularly pain. It can be many other things, or rather, has become a lot of other things, but this is the core. I think it is one of the few styles of singing (or art) where people look for and judge the best performers by how well they bring out the strongest feelings in the most genuine and spontaneous way. At least those that know the core of the art appear to do this. Those same people (like Concha, for example) will tell you that it is better to sing out of tune and with conviction and strength, or to have shaky ankles when you strike a position, as long as you're doing it with "fuerza" (something like being completely present, and expressing what you have inside). In fact, it is very, very common for flamenco guitarists to have a string obviously out of tune. Some truly great singers (like Agujetas) slip out of tune. And some of the best ones seem to me to be very slightly out of tune on purpose, or manage to do a very subtle out of tune-ness that is pure genius.
Flamenco is not meant to be pretty; it is more beautiful in its ugliness; in its raw truth. That is why I love it, and that is why I respect Agujetas so much.
But I can't help shaking my head and laughing a little at how utterly weird he is. In part 5 or 6 of the documentary on youtube, he shows a crucifix that he made himself, out of wood. Jesus is totally hilarious, with his arms raised in the air. I think he said that was how the shape of the wood was, so he used it like that. He gave Jesus some of his wife's hair (not uncommon to use human hair to decorate a Jesus statue). But says that Christ "castigated" him because he did something wrong in the way he made it.
At one point in the video he goes outside and says how much he loves the campo. He points to his fields and says he doesn't really use them, but he lets good people have them. Not bad people though. And if someone poor is going by and needs food they can just take it. He goes over by some grapes and says, "these are called uvas robaos" (robbed grapes), "because the plants were taken from that field over there when they were small." And explains something about this; how the person didn't mind or it really was alright.
He appears to be the person most totally unaffected by what other people think, that I can imagine. I suppose this is probably not true, as I believe he does have an ego, and is proud of things he does, stating that in plain terms, like some people from this culture or from flamenco seem in general more apt to do.
bulerias - easier to get into
"cristo es libre como yo" note jesus with his arms happily in the air
skip over the talking parts if you want
more difficult; "uglier"
Here note the guitarist: Moraito Chico who died last month - a very great guitarist and terrible loss.
You may not like him, but I believe those that cannot appreciate him at all do not like what flamenco really is; or maybe do not understand where flamenco came from. I did not like him when I started flamenco. It took many years to understand. Some of the best tastes are acquired ones, though.
My friend Gary, a guitarist who now lives in Vancouver, lived with him and his family in the 80s, and has been a close friend. Gary comes from the Deep South, and has a background in blues. That is probably part of the reason that he understands and appreciates the Agujetas family.
Tonight I have been listening to an old documentary on Agujetas.
Manuel comes from a family of blacksmiths, and worked as one until he was about 30, I believe. This was a very typical profession for gitanos. In his father's generation, the gitanos were often very poor, and the ones who did flamenco would be asked or demanded to sing or play for the wealthy or powerful in the town, and given very little money. His father was hit by the "señoritos" if he didn't want to sing.
He says that he went to school once, but pretty much hated the place and went running out, never to return. He thinks that if a person knows how to read and write, they can't sing flamenco, because they lose their good pronunciation. He does not know where or when he was born: it could be one of two cities, and within a 2 year time period. "No soy de ningun lao," he says in the documentary. (I am not from anywhere). This is not normal with gitanos in Spain. They have all been settled for a long time, and are not like other "gypsies" in Europe at all.
The very first word that comes to mind to describe his singing is "raw". In Spanish, the word is "rancio". It is the same as it's twin in English, though the meaning is not always so bad. It means mellow, for wine, rancid, for butter, ancient, for other things, unpleasant, for people. I don't care to have anyone explain the exact meaning as applied to cante, because I think it's obvious from these cues and from hearing this kind of singing. A combination of all those English words probably describes it well.
Agujetas is quoted in my Historia Social de Flamenco as saying that Carmen Amaya (one of the most famous dancers in the entire history of flamenco) was an "india que daba saltos" (an indio is what gitanos call each other at times - referring to the old mistaken Spanish word for Latin Americans, like its English translation. Except that the gitanos are believed to have really come from India). She was an "indian jumping around", and that is why the Americans liked her. He has been known to say "solo me gusta yo" (I only like myself - as a flamenco singer).
When questioned about the Franco government, which many flamenco people had trouble with, being poor, exploited, and left-leaning, he says, "Yo soy Espanol, pero me da igual Espana. Yo no vivo de gobiernos ni de nadie. Yo soy libre, ahora y con Franco" (I am Spanish but I don't care about Spain. I don't live by governments or by anybody. I am free, now and under Franco.)
And about his life in the countryside with his Japanese wife: "I am the freest man in the world."
Critics and flamencologists describe him as being an anachronism; belonging to another time.
His face is wild: there are gold teeth and a knife wound scar across his cheek. His eyes seem to be looking through everything a lot of the time, and him and his sister have a common way of singing, almost as if they are possessed. I don't think there are many others who even have a jaleo (shout between verses, to the guitarist) to match his.
The essence of flamenco is to find an expression for the most intense things you have inside, particularly pain. It can be many other things, or rather, has become a lot of other things, but this is the core. I think it is one of the few styles of singing (or art) where people look for and judge the best performers by how well they bring out the strongest feelings in the most genuine and spontaneous way. At least those that know the core of the art appear to do this. Those same people (like Concha, for example) will tell you that it is better to sing out of tune and with conviction and strength, or to have shaky ankles when you strike a position, as long as you're doing it with "fuerza" (something like being completely present, and expressing what you have inside). In fact, it is very, very common for flamenco guitarists to have a string obviously out of tune. Some truly great singers (like Agujetas) slip out of tune. And some of the best ones seem to me to be very slightly out of tune on purpose, or manage to do a very subtle out of tune-ness that is pure genius.
Flamenco is not meant to be pretty; it is more beautiful in its ugliness; in its raw truth. That is why I love it, and that is why I respect Agujetas so much.
But I can't help shaking my head and laughing a little at how utterly weird he is. In part 5 or 6 of the documentary on youtube, he shows a crucifix that he made himself, out of wood. Jesus is totally hilarious, with his arms raised in the air. I think he said that was how the shape of the wood was, so he used it like that. He gave Jesus some of his wife's hair (not uncommon to use human hair to decorate a Jesus statue). But says that Christ "castigated" him because he did something wrong in the way he made it.
At one point in the video he goes outside and says how much he loves the campo. He points to his fields and says he doesn't really use them, but he lets good people have them. Not bad people though. And if someone poor is going by and needs food they can just take it. He goes over by some grapes and says, "these are called uvas robaos" (robbed grapes), "because the plants were taken from that field over there when they were small." And explains something about this; how the person didn't mind or it really was alright.
He appears to be the person most totally unaffected by what other people think, that I can imagine. I suppose this is probably not true, as I believe he does have an ego, and is proud of things he does, stating that in plain terms, like some people from this culture or from flamenco seem in general more apt to do.
bulerias - easier to get into
"cristo es libre como yo" note jesus with his arms happily in the air
skip over the talking parts if you want
more difficult; "uglier"
Here note the guitarist: Moraito Chico who died last month - a very great guitarist and terrible loss.
Friday, September 16, 2011
When I can locate my card reader I'll show you pictures of my groovy (euphemistically) surroundings. I had the guys at the electronic items store make me a 10 meter extension cord en vez de buying myself a new laptop battery and having it shipped from England. I can now contentedly work on the rooftop in the evening instead of feeling the need to go sit by the river and attempt to cram in work after dinner.
People are the same everywhere - some are dirty and some are clean. I just got back from Plaza San Lorenzo, where I sat for a while to relax. There was a grandmother with her grandaughter in a stroller sitting on the same bench. She looked over and said in a rather harsh voice - those men are taking a bath in the tap! Look at them with no shirts on - ugh! She was obviously disgusted and made bad faces. On the other hand, there are the guys that own this place, who I try not to judge for their lack of care for their surroundings and hygiene. I tried to wipe an old plastic bucket chair destroyed by the sun, and the grime on it stunk revoltingly. So I went for modifying an upside down plastic wine crate instead. Found an old bucket, put it upside down with a bag from the Jamon shop on top and a tea towel that I had used for cleaning the first day I got here.
Two days ago the full moon hung huge and low and yellow beside the Giralda and everyone on the Calle Betis side of the Guadalquivir was trying to take pictures of it. The date palms are dropping ripe dates by the river. Construction workers and random neighbours hammering stuff sing flamenco while they work. Down the street I walk to the studio or to anywhere else North-ish, they are painting a school, and the two guys on a platform high up, had straw hats and - crap! My chair just cracked... perching now with my Jamon bag and tea towel on the edge of a slightly less revolting plastic chair - Anyways they were working under beach umbrellas (or cafe umbrellas) on their painting platform.
Drinking a mixture of very cheap (E1.99) wine mixed with the cheaper and less good brand of tinto de verano, with lemon added. Should probably not be drinking alcohol. Drunk tea instead of wine going out with Oscar last night. Think I ate some undercooked chicken in Lebrija at the Feria this past weekend.
I went to Cadiz friday to check out the English academies. Only one was open of the ones I found. Took off not knowing where I'd stay. Luckily Sachiko let me share her bed in the piso they are renting from Frasci in Lebrija. Sachiko had told me to come out for the Feria (as had Concha and Rafael) but there were no extra beds anywhere and they had told me I would have to stay in a hotel. No money for that at this point. I stayed the next day on the couch. The first night they had already been out all night before that so there was no flamenco. Except for Jesus, who we ran into outside one of the gitano tents. We saw him sing in Chipiona during August. He sang us a bunch of bulerias and some other stuff with a heavy component of Camaron, standing outside the caseta. We attracted random passersby (4 Japonesas doing bulerias, me and him). A Jerezano stopped by and in typical Jerezano way got a little bit pesado (hitting on me in a really foreward way) but not totally uncontrollable. When things calmed down we stood around talking and Jesus glommed onto me. He is a good looking guy, and very sensitive person - a genuinely decent person, except for some issues. It turns out he is 50 and has no wife, and is looking for one. Why don't I come home with him? You are a really good person, he says. Jesus fixes me with an intent man to woman stare the likes of which I have never been subject to, about 6 inches from my face. I don't take him too seriously or get very worried about him. The next night at another caseta he tries again and seems like he is nearly crushed by my gentle rebuttal. As Concha says, he is a "loco perdido" (crazy, lost). He seems like he isn't quite alright, and indeed, when Concha indicated that drugs were the problem, it was obvious. Too bad. Him and his brother are both really gentle, sweet people, but unfortunately that seems to happen to artists like Jesus sometimes.
For those two days nothing else in the world existed. I sung tangos with my amigas Japonesas, watched Ritmo y Geografia documentary DVDs all afternoon with them, practiced dancing, until we went for dinner at the Feria with the family that evening. The family meant Frasci, Carmen (who is now back home), Curro, his girlfriend, Rafael's grown son from a previous marriage, with his wife and 3 kids, and Pepa and Curro Fernandez, sister and brother in law. Dinner lasted a long time and then someone sang a solea on the stage, competing with blasting techno music from the caseta next door. After that, a group of many older gitanas was dancing up at the front. Sachiko told me stories about the opening night. I don't want to distress anyone by relating what Sachiko described. Suffice it to say that they act out things in dance that are cathartic, these old gitana ladies. They have had a lot of pain in life, as they come from a persecuted group, and the gitano men don't always treat them the same as we would expect to be treated. The kind of dancing they did even the night I was there, was something I'd never seen before. It was all women, many older, like the kind of female bonding dancing that happens at weddings and celebrations in the Middle East. Concha joined and we followed her. There was a rough circle and they pushed each of us into the centre to do a little turn. The old ladies did really raunchy, suggestive moves, worse than young blonde bimbos on MTV... shocking, but hilarious. Reminded me of descriptions I've heard of weddings in very repressed, strict female and male segregated countries where the women make genitalia out of bananas for the bride and things like that.
We went to the other gitana caseta (only two tents at the Feria belong to the gitanos, as that is more or less representative of their population in that town). After a bit, a spontaneous fiesta broke out, with Concha at the center. This is really the only way to see the most pure, best flamenco. You can't plan it, you can't expect it. You just have to be in the right place at the right time. There really is nothing else like this. It is not the same as hearing it on stage. You can't get the effect outside of a town like Lebrija or Jerez or several others. If the same Lebrijanos were to do the same thing in Sevilla, the Sevillanos would not be used to doing palmas (clapping along) in the manner that best suits the way they sing in Lebrija. For this reason, there is such a perfect fusion of things, all improvised, the entire crowd participating. Several people danced, but the most impresionante was Concha dancing, with Carmen stepping into the circle to sing for her mother, while Curro did palmas and jaleo (yelling) from the side. Rafael behind Curro, adding in his bit too. Carmen and Curro truly love it. There is no doubt watching them. At their house for lunch, they break out into palmas and cante.
People are the same everywhere - some are dirty and some are clean. I just got back from Plaza San Lorenzo, where I sat for a while to relax. There was a grandmother with her grandaughter in a stroller sitting on the same bench. She looked over and said in a rather harsh voice - those men are taking a bath in the tap! Look at them with no shirts on - ugh! She was obviously disgusted and made bad faces. On the other hand, there are the guys that own this place, who I try not to judge for their lack of care for their surroundings and hygiene. I tried to wipe an old plastic bucket chair destroyed by the sun, and the grime on it stunk revoltingly. So I went for modifying an upside down plastic wine crate instead. Found an old bucket, put it upside down with a bag from the Jamon shop on top and a tea towel that I had used for cleaning the first day I got here.
Two days ago the full moon hung huge and low and yellow beside the Giralda and everyone on the Calle Betis side of the Guadalquivir was trying to take pictures of it. The date palms are dropping ripe dates by the river. Construction workers and random neighbours hammering stuff sing flamenco while they work. Down the street I walk to the studio or to anywhere else North-ish, they are painting a school, and the two guys on a platform high up, had straw hats and - crap! My chair just cracked... perching now with my Jamon bag and tea towel on the edge of a slightly less revolting plastic chair - Anyways they were working under beach umbrellas (or cafe umbrellas) on their painting platform.
Drinking a mixture of very cheap (E1.99) wine mixed with the cheaper and less good brand of tinto de verano, with lemon added. Should probably not be drinking alcohol. Drunk tea instead of wine going out with Oscar last night. Think I ate some undercooked chicken in Lebrija at the Feria this past weekend.
I went to Cadiz friday to check out the English academies. Only one was open of the ones I found. Took off not knowing where I'd stay. Luckily Sachiko let me share her bed in the piso they are renting from Frasci in Lebrija. Sachiko had told me to come out for the Feria (as had Concha and Rafael) but there were no extra beds anywhere and they had told me I would have to stay in a hotel. No money for that at this point. I stayed the next day on the couch. The first night they had already been out all night before that so there was no flamenco. Except for Jesus, who we ran into outside one of the gitano tents. We saw him sing in Chipiona during August. He sang us a bunch of bulerias and some other stuff with a heavy component of Camaron, standing outside the caseta. We attracted random passersby (4 Japonesas doing bulerias, me and him). A Jerezano stopped by and in typical Jerezano way got a little bit pesado (hitting on me in a really foreward way) but not totally uncontrollable. When things calmed down we stood around talking and Jesus glommed onto me. He is a good looking guy, and very sensitive person - a genuinely decent person, except for some issues. It turns out he is 50 and has no wife, and is looking for one. Why don't I come home with him? You are a really good person, he says. Jesus fixes me with an intent man to woman stare the likes of which I have never been subject to, about 6 inches from my face. I don't take him too seriously or get very worried about him. The next night at another caseta he tries again and seems like he is nearly crushed by my gentle rebuttal. As Concha says, he is a "loco perdido" (crazy, lost). He seems like he isn't quite alright, and indeed, when Concha indicated that drugs were the problem, it was obvious. Too bad. Him and his brother are both really gentle, sweet people, but unfortunately that seems to happen to artists like Jesus sometimes.
For those two days nothing else in the world existed. I sung tangos with my amigas Japonesas, watched Ritmo y Geografia documentary DVDs all afternoon with them, practiced dancing, until we went for dinner at the Feria with the family that evening. The family meant Frasci, Carmen (who is now back home), Curro, his girlfriend, Rafael's grown son from a previous marriage, with his wife and 3 kids, and Pepa and Curro Fernandez, sister and brother in law. Dinner lasted a long time and then someone sang a solea on the stage, competing with blasting techno music from the caseta next door. After that, a group of many older gitanas was dancing up at the front. Sachiko told me stories about the opening night. I don't want to distress anyone by relating what Sachiko described. Suffice it to say that they act out things in dance that are cathartic, these old gitana ladies. They have had a lot of pain in life, as they come from a persecuted group, and the gitano men don't always treat them the same as we would expect to be treated. The kind of dancing they did even the night I was there, was something I'd never seen before. It was all women, many older, like the kind of female bonding dancing that happens at weddings and celebrations in the Middle East. Concha joined and we followed her. There was a rough circle and they pushed each of us into the centre to do a little turn. The old ladies did really raunchy, suggestive moves, worse than young blonde bimbos on MTV... shocking, but hilarious. Reminded me of descriptions I've heard of weddings in very repressed, strict female and male segregated countries where the women make genitalia out of bananas for the bride and things like that.
We went to the other gitana caseta (only two tents at the Feria belong to the gitanos, as that is more or less representative of their population in that town). After a bit, a spontaneous fiesta broke out, with Concha at the center. This is really the only way to see the most pure, best flamenco. You can't plan it, you can't expect it. You just have to be in the right place at the right time. There really is nothing else like this. It is not the same as hearing it on stage. You can't get the effect outside of a town like Lebrija or Jerez or several others. If the same Lebrijanos were to do the same thing in Sevilla, the Sevillanos would not be used to doing palmas (clapping along) in the manner that best suits the way they sing in Lebrija. For this reason, there is such a perfect fusion of things, all improvised, the entire crowd participating. Several people danced, but the most impresionante was Concha dancing, with Carmen stepping into the circle to sing for her mother, while Curro did palmas and jaleo (yelling) from the side. Rafael behind Curro, adding in his bit too. Carmen and Curro truly love it. There is no doubt watching them. At their house for lunch, they break out into palmas and cante.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
If one should feel the need to give oneself a good shaking (I am not sure why that would be the case, but you never know. Perhaps if one is really annoyed with oneself or has some self-disgust)... Well, just come to Sevilla, get on a bike, and ride around. You will be thoroughly rattled good and quick.
Finally I am back in the hovel, and have taken a shower after riding in one direction far out of the center, and around the circumnavigacion road and out of the centre again in the other direction. Then after walking around finding and not finding English academies out in Nervion, which looks like any other city, and not like Sevilla, with shopping malls, finally I rode back in on the far side of the cathedral. I decided to go stop in at Oscar's bar, but he is gone on holidays this week.
Now I am looking at a pile of plums which were 2 kg for 1E. I wasn't interested in a large amount for ridiculously cheap (which of course turned out to be half bad, half green), but the guy is notoriously kind of a dork, so I gave in and said, "vale, quizas puedo hacer mermelada." Don't know what I'm thinking trying to make jam out of plums in the hovel, while I'm in the middle of trying to find work, but you know. These things are in one's blood. One of the things I inherited that I am not rebelling against, really.
Finally I get it. I have to walk in to places and take a paper copy of my CV. Yesterday a nice English man explained this to me. They may get 600 CVs e-mailed from places like Guatemala, so they don't bother looking at them unless they have to. If someone nice walks in the door and they need someone, they'll take them. So I made myself get up at 9:00, went to the internet bar and printed out a bunch this morning. Despite repeated ignoring of the "zoom" section which is the same word in the Spanish Microsoft Office, and printing it out on 1/4 of the page numerous times. At least the cute Latino guy was nice and kept trying to help me despite my idiocy. Then spent the morning pounding the pavement. The morning was nicer than tonight, because it was all in the centre, but by 1:30 I was sweaty and exhausted, so I decided to treat myself to a glass of wine in Santa Cruz (the tourist neighborhood) on one of the most touristy streets, on a table under the orange trees just hiding the Giralda. I lost myself in Chinese-Spanish for a while.
My friends in Sevilla are two people who work between 12 and 15 hours per day, and an artist who keeps a nutty schedule. The other people I meet or get a chance to shoot the breezes with tend to be waiters. This is a good source of "friends" for foreigners or as yet totally unstable people like me. The waiter at Tomato cafe wanted to talk about languages when he saw me studying Chinese.
Then I stopped by a tiny clothing and accessory shop with really awesome stuff, that I've been in long ago. This time the lady for some reason wanted to know about me, and when she found out I'd been here for a while and was now looking for work, and was Canadian, she suddenly wanted to look after me. She offered to let me know if she knew of anybody who needed kids looked after, in case I ended up needing nanny work to pay the rent. She asked if I sewed and said she might be able to give me a bit of work helping her. She also offered to let me know if her Swiss friend needs her apartment sat for a good chunk of the year. She was about my mom's age, and said she'd gone to live in Paris once many years ago and remembers how it was. She told me "animo! you'll find something!" and not to be timid about asking anyone. Sometimes all it takes is one person to tell you not to be afraid; to give you permission, and tell you you'll eventually make it.
Finally I am back in the hovel, and have taken a shower after riding in one direction far out of the center, and around the circumnavigacion road and out of the centre again in the other direction. Then after walking around finding and not finding English academies out in Nervion, which looks like any other city, and not like Sevilla, with shopping malls, finally I rode back in on the far side of the cathedral. I decided to go stop in at Oscar's bar, but he is gone on holidays this week.
Now I am looking at a pile of plums which were 2 kg for 1E. I wasn't interested in a large amount for ridiculously cheap (which of course turned out to be half bad, half green), but the guy is notoriously kind of a dork, so I gave in and said, "vale, quizas puedo hacer mermelada." Don't know what I'm thinking trying to make jam out of plums in the hovel, while I'm in the middle of trying to find work, but you know. These things are in one's blood. One of the things I inherited that I am not rebelling against, really.
Finally I get it. I have to walk in to places and take a paper copy of my CV. Yesterday a nice English man explained this to me. They may get 600 CVs e-mailed from places like Guatemala, so they don't bother looking at them unless they have to. If someone nice walks in the door and they need someone, they'll take them. So I made myself get up at 9:00, went to the internet bar and printed out a bunch this morning. Despite repeated ignoring of the "zoom" section which is the same word in the Spanish Microsoft Office, and printing it out on 1/4 of the page numerous times. At least the cute Latino guy was nice and kept trying to help me despite my idiocy. Then spent the morning pounding the pavement. The morning was nicer than tonight, because it was all in the centre, but by 1:30 I was sweaty and exhausted, so I decided to treat myself to a glass of wine in Santa Cruz (the tourist neighborhood) on one of the most touristy streets, on a table under the orange trees just hiding the Giralda. I lost myself in Chinese-Spanish for a while.
My friends in Sevilla are two people who work between 12 and 15 hours per day, and an artist who keeps a nutty schedule. The other people I meet or get a chance to shoot the breezes with tend to be waiters. This is a good source of "friends" for foreigners or as yet totally unstable people like me. The waiter at Tomato cafe wanted to talk about languages when he saw me studying Chinese.
Then I stopped by a tiny clothing and accessory shop with really awesome stuff, that I've been in long ago. This time the lady for some reason wanted to know about me, and when she found out I'd been here for a while and was now looking for work, and was Canadian, she suddenly wanted to look after me. She offered to let me know if she knew of anybody who needed kids looked after, in case I ended up needing nanny work to pay the rent. She asked if I sewed and said she might be able to give me a bit of work helping her. She also offered to let me know if her Swiss friend needs her apartment sat for a good chunk of the year. She was about my mom's age, and said she'd gone to live in Paris once many years ago and remembers how it was. She told me "animo! you'll find something!" and not to be timid about asking anyone. Sometimes all it takes is one person to tell you not to be afraid; to give you permission, and tell you you'll eventually make it.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
It's 2 am and I'm not sleeping. Luckily Rosa isn't playing her English pop music tonight. I'm burning incense because they are smoking in the bar downstairs. I don't know where Sherie is. She must be working. She always goes and works in the wee hours of the morning.
The other morning I went upstairs to find a bucket to do my handwashing. Rosa was making a guiso and had it cooking on the stove. So she came over and started talking to me all about her children. I was a captive listener for a while. It was a Spanish kind of morning. Light was coming in through the skylight, into her hovel of a kitchen up there. She seemed happy and chatted away about her son Eduardo and about Jose his friend, (the two owners of the bar), and how they both used to love weight lifting (the stew was for them... they need it, she said. If she didn't feed them, they'd just eat montaditos). Jose gave it up, but Eduardo, despite his age (about 50) still lifts weights. He has an earring in one ear and kind of a brush cut. They both are really nice guys. I can't be upset at them too much for renting out such a hovel, because they probably don't see it that way; the state of it is probably something they would be totally happy living in. Eduardo's mother is, anyways. She does his laundry too.
She has a daughter, married with several small children. The daughter has a black belt and teaches Judo. She joined the volunteer police force, and Rosa mentioned how she had to go do these kind of obstacle courses in the countryside. She also wanted to go as a peacekeeper to some country where they were always bombing things, back about 10 years ago, somewhere in the middle east or Africa. I did not recognise the name, despite her saying it several times. A female friend went, but her father didn't want her to. I guess Rosa must be divorced... though that seems highly unlikely for a woman of around 75 - 80, in Spain. Perhaps it was some other kind of father, or maybe she refers to her husband that way. The daughter has also done all kinds of fairly high end waiting of tables. Now, however, she works at the airport, in what capacity I couldn't decipher or rather, Rosa didn't make clear, though she does get up at 4 am to go there. Rosa occasionally goes to cover a gap in the day when neither her daughter or son in law can be there for the kids.
Today I sat in Plaza San Lorenzo. It is the best place in all of Sevilla. It was 3:30 and Wednesday so the Sardinero (bar) wasn't open. Neither were the two churches, and a lady stopped to ask me whether I knew if they were open. She told me she never could remember either what day they were closed, though she had been coming there for years. She was really lovely. She told me she was 86, and her father had been a doctor, so she knew to use olive oil to keep her skin young. She pointed to her chest and arms, and indeed, her chest was surprisingly wrinkle free, though her face told her age. She had the most incredible straight posture, and something in her manner like a young girl. It sounded like she said she would get cookies thrown at her if she crossed the plaza. That was probably a hole in my Spanish understanding, which is otherwise pretty awesome these days. "Pegado por tortas", she said laughing, several times, pointing in the direction of the bakery on the corner.
I realised when I visited Marta and Alicia that my listening skills had increased a lot just during August, living in Lebrija. I didn't use English at all the whole month, except to write it on the internet. I understood pretty much everything Marta told me about her adventures in a rather experimental orchestra psychological project, even though she talked fast. In an attempt to increase the connection between members of the orchestra, they did stuff almost like therapy, trust games and so on, with an international group, some of whom didn't have a language in common to explain to each other what they liked most about themselves or such things.
The other morning I went upstairs to find a bucket to do my handwashing. Rosa was making a guiso and had it cooking on the stove. So she came over and started talking to me all about her children. I was a captive listener for a while. It was a Spanish kind of morning. Light was coming in through the skylight, into her hovel of a kitchen up there. She seemed happy and chatted away about her son Eduardo and about Jose his friend, (the two owners of the bar), and how they both used to love weight lifting (the stew was for them... they need it, she said. If she didn't feed them, they'd just eat montaditos). Jose gave it up, but Eduardo, despite his age (about 50) still lifts weights. He has an earring in one ear and kind of a brush cut. They both are really nice guys. I can't be upset at them too much for renting out such a hovel, because they probably don't see it that way; the state of it is probably something they would be totally happy living in. Eduardo's mother is, anyways. She does his laundry too.
She has a daughter, married with several small children. The daughter has a black belt and teaches Judo. She joined the volunteer police force, and Rosa mentioned how she had to go do these kind of obstacle courses in the countryside. She also wanted to go as a peacekeeper to some country where they were always bombing things, back about 10 years ago, somewhere in the middle east or Africa. I did not recognise the name, despite her saying it several times. A female friend went, but her father didn't want her to. I guess Rosa must be divorced... though that seems highly unlikely for a woman of around 75 - 80, in Spain. Perhaps it was some other kind of father, or maybe she refers to her husband that way. The daughter has also done all kinds of fairly high end waiting of tables. Now, however, she works at the airport, in what capacity I couldn't decipher or rather, Rosa didn't make clear, though she does get up at 4 am to go there. Rosa occasionally goes to cover a gap in the day when neither her daughter or son in law can be there for the kids.
Today I sat in Plaza San Lorenzo. It is the best place in all of Sevilla. It was 3:30 and Wednesday so the Sardinero (bar) wasn't open. Neither were the two churches, and a lady stopped to ask me whether I knew if they were open. She told me she never could remember either what day they were closed, though she had been coming there for years. She was really lovely. She told me she was 86, and her father had been a doctor, so she knew to use olive oil to keep her skin young. She pointed to her chest and arms, and indeed, her chest was surprisingly wrinkle free, though her face told her age. She had the most incredible straight posture, and something in her manner like a young girl. It sounded like she said she would get cookies thrown at her if she crossed the plaza. That was probably a hole in my Spanish understanding, which is otherwise pretty awesome these days. "Pegado por tortas", she said laughing, several times, pointing in the direction of the bakery on the corner.
I realised when I visited Marta and Alicia that my listening skills had increased a lot just during August, living in Lebrija. I didn't use English at all the whole month, except to write it on the internet. I understood pretty much everything Marta told me about her adventures in a rather experimental orchestra psychological project, even though she talked fast. In an attempt to increase the connection between members of the orchestra, they did stuff almost like therapy, trust games and so on, with an international group, some of whom didn't have a language in common to explain to each other what they liked most about themselves or such things.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Sevilla is an impossible place. Tonight I could not believe that it exists. I can't imagine a city more beautiful. But not just because of its looks; it still has character and culture. I went down by the river after doing work stuff, and before dinner. All the 18 year old boys were practicing their trumpets and other instruments for their Semana Santa bands. The feeling hearing that music gives me, so far away from the event, is almost too intense. It's culture shock. Everything else has become normal to me most of the time, but to see hordes of cool looking guys between 17 and 23 or so spending their evenings playing religious music, practicing 10 months of the year round is just too foreign.
Calle Sol cuts a diagonal across a large stretch of the area between the train station and San Luis/Feria. Halfway up it, 5 streets meet in a haphazard way, at a church. One corner has a multifaceted building, which isn't really plumb with gravity, perpendicular to the ground. The "Bar Uno de San Roman", which has a parrot in a cage just inside the door, is just off the corner. There is an azulejo (tile) set into the wall outside the door that says Manolo Caracol sang there, the day he died, if I understand correctly. There are pictures of bullfights and flamenco singers covering the walls inside. On two facets of the corner, there is the shop Antonio Rodriguez, who specialises in Capirotes and stuff for costaleros (the KKK tall pointy-type hats for Semana Santa), and other Semana Santa things.
The other people who live in this residence may have trouble getting their bearings. They probably will be quite confused when they reach home and don't find their door. I cleaned it - twice. It still is not what one could really call clean, but it has shiny green paint now, and confounded me the first time I came back.
Sachiko just got back from Minneapolis, well via Lebrija. She came up from there after just getting there the day before yesterday. We had lunch at the Chinese place, and managed to order rice with great difficulty in Spanish, when I could have just said, "Dai women liang wan fan." Thank goodness for friends who are more sane than me. Thank you Sachiko.
By the way, Manolo Caracol is a flamenco singer with a very beautiful voice. Highly recommended to search on youtube if you have any interest.
Today I realised I cannot imagine life without siesta. Life with business that continues relentlessly on past lunch. Que barbaridad! One cannot live like that.
The other people who live in this residence may have trouble getting their bearings. They probably will be quite confused when they reach home and don't find their door. I cleaned it - twice. It still is not what one could really call clean, but it has shiny green paint now, and confounded me the first time I came back.
Sachiko just got back from Minneapolis, well via Lebrija. She came up from there after just getting there the day before yesterday. We had lunch at the Chinese place, and managed to order rice with great difficulty in Spanish, when I could have just said, "Dai women liang wan fan." Thank goodness for friends who are more sane than me. Thank you Sachiko.
By the way, Manolo Caracol is a flamenco singer with a very beautiful voice. Highly recommended to search on youtube if you have any interest.
Today I realised I cannot imagine life without siesta. Life with business that continues relentlessly on past lunch. Que barbaridad! One cannot live like that.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Potato chips and cheap wine. There is only one choice of potato chips - plain - but they are better than the ones we get at home. Well, there is also Jamon flavour. Since I got my olive oil back I've been happier. Today I managed to cook my usual rice mash-up dish, so I feel healthier. But it is Sunday, so I couldn't get any oats for breakfast tomorrow.
The night before last, Sheri and I were up till about 3 am looking at flamenco on youtube. Last night we went to Pena Torres Macarena. She had met the director in the studios at Calle Castellar. He was singing and she painted him. He invited her to the pena and it was her first time going to one. We got there early and sat beside Diego while he started to sing, and the guitarist I've seen before there. It was totally unlike other Saturday nights I've been to. There was a big group later on and it went quite late. Pena means club, and everybody is members. For a night like this, it is just the members of the club hanging out singing together. They really took us in this time; they assumed we were dancers, but that we also sang, and kept asking us to do both. Most of them were older (older than 55), though there was one guitarist our age and one or two couples, then later on some young people. We didn't dance, as Sheri shared my thought - we would rather respect their art and not flounce around like a pair of daft, show-offy foreigners. But it became obvious part way through that they genuinely wanted us to participate. We promised them that next time we would, and let the older ladies do the dancing.
I was happy to share this with a friend who really appreciates it, and again was in awe of this culture I am in. This form of singing where they pour out their soul like no other kind of music - where that is the main requirement and it comes before technique, or even being in tune. Luckily at this pena, they have adequate technique as well.
I felt listening that I never want to leave here. I never want to leave a place where people understand when things are genuine and when they come straight from the heart. It is not easy for them either. Some of them say they are nervous, or look like they might be. But it is an accepted thing to do - to pour the deepest pain of your soul in a beautiful way.
I watched people of Spanish background on facebook the other day say things that sounded really harsh in English; they were insulting. And then I watched the conversation turn until they ended up agreeing to hang out and have a bottle of wine together and discuss the subject. It could have partly been the person responding to the insult, but it was partly cultural, I think, that the offense taken was less. All I know is that feelings are more acceptable here.
The night before last, Sheri and I were up till about 3 am looking at flamenco on youtube. Last night we went to Pena Torres Macarena. She had met the director in the studios at Calle Castellar. He was singing and she painted him. He invited her to the pena and it was her first time going to one. We got there early and sat beside Diego while he started to sing, and the guitarist I've seen before there. It was totally unlike other Saturday nights I've been to. There was a big group later on and it went quite late. Pena means club, and everybody is members. For a night like this, it is just the members of the club hanging out singing together. They really took us in this time; they assumed we were dancers, but that we also sang, and kept asking us to do both. Most of them were older (older than 55), though there was one guitarist our age and one or two couples, then later on some young people. We didn't dance, as Sheri shared my thought - we would rather respect their art and not flounce around like a pair of daft, show-offy foreigners. But it became obvious part way through that they genuinely wanted us to participate. We promised them that next time we would, and let the older ladies do the dancing.
I was happy to share this with a friend who really appreciates it, and again was in awe of this culture I am in. This form of singing where they pour out their soul like no other kind of music - where that is the main requirement and it comes before technique, or even being in tune. Luckily at this pena, they have adequate technique as well.
I felt listening that I never want to leave here. I never want to leave a place where people understand when things are genuine and when they come straight from the heart. It is not easy for them either. Some of them say they are nervous, or look like they might be. But it is an accepted thing to do - to pour the deepest pain of your soul in a beautiful way.
I watched people of Spanish background on facebook the other day say things that sounded really harsh in English; they were insulting. And then I watched the conversation turn until they ended up agreeing to hang out and have a bottle of wine together and discuss the subject. It could have partly been the person responding to the insult, but it was partly cultural, I think, that the offense taken was less. All I know is that feelings are more acceptable here.
I am living in the kind of place that traumatised my mother as a child so that she has been quite a keen cleaner all her life...
If I were to have to describe the colloquial terms "dive", "hole", "pigsty" to an alien, I might show them this place. The other people that live here don't seem to find that it affects their state of mind that much, although Sheri admitted that it did, once she noticed. What I admire about some people is that they are just too busy being utterly passionate about their biggest dreams in life, that two non-functioning clotheswashers, three revolting fridges (and more upstairs), grimy black-with-oil light switches, a moldy bathroom with a leaking shower, a storage room full of junk, with no door, behind the kitchen, random things dangling from the ceiling that were once nice in the 80s or when they weren't broken... don't really register.
It was a little difficult looking for a place during August, living in Lebrija. But in the end, the real problem was that I didn't want to promise some really nice fellow roommates that I'd stay for 3 months, and then find a job in another city, decide to go work on a farm, or go home. This was one of the few places I knew without going to major trouble, where staying for a month at a time was possible.
I feel that I have it pretty good with men noticing me, but I'm nowhere near Sheri's abilities in that field. She's turned down 13 guys since she got here. I think a couple of months. But going out the door of our apartment the other day, a really guapo guy caught her eye, and then he saw the door. She could tell he noticed it. Who wouldn't? It must be the dirtiest door on Calle Sol. I cleaned it halfway today. Anyways, I think I'm not going to clean much more, cause I'm here for the same goal as Sheri, really. To obtain a state of mind like Antonio Gades in the poster she showed me.
For years I have had a vague image of living on very little, in circumstances that others would perhaps not choose. Since I was a teenager I have badly wanted to put my mental and emotional energy towards some pursuit with passion, and possibly for a living. To that end I have for a long time thought that if it were necessary, I'd rather do without, if my spirit and soul could be satisfied. They certainly haven't been anywhere even remotely close to that, really ever. I suppose it is the typical artist thing. I do not believe that one "must" live poorly to be an artist, just that it often happens to be necessary.
Sheri considers nutrition extremely important and spent some time explaining that she thought is was a big problem in the flamenco world - that any aspect of the art (not just dancing) requires an enormous amount of energy due to the emotional intensity. In the past, along with the lifestyle in which flamenco began (a lifestyle from a different era, when people lived close together, had less things but of better quality) they had better food. We all had better food in the past, because it was picked closer to the time of eating, or was not grown in nutrient poor soil fertilised by simple chemical fertilisers, and thus, gave our bodies what they craved. She maintains this could even be a part of why the gitanos do drugs. They eat white flour spaghetti with ketchup and hot dogs, and then try to expend a massive amount of energy singing or dancing, so they need cocaine. Sheri doesn't have a centimo until she gets paid on Thursday. But she eats brown rice, quinoa, carrots, and no junk food. She spends an unbelievable E20 per week.
I do not know if I will continue to live like this. I certainly do not plan to continue living in this hovel. But if it suits my life's best direction, perhaps I can learn to do with very little. It has seemed depressing and scary to me to think about "depriving" myself of certain luxuries like having coffee or a glass of wine in a cafe, and I have struggled with that the entire time I've been here because my budget really doesn't include much for it. Up till now, I've felt that it is better to let myself do it, within reason, so as not to put myself in a depressing state of feeling deprived. But at this point, I can't afford it. There isn't anything very difficult about it, as long as the people you hang out with are doing the same. Without knowing that someone else in my house is doing the same thing, that we can hang out together sometimes in the evening, it would be impossible. Everything really depends on people. During the day Sheri is either at her studio painting, at flamenco classes, or else sitting in the lobby of a beautiful hotel reading (in order not to hang out here). This is the biggest thing that attracted me to China initially, despite its "ugliness" (all the bad things about it): the people are together laughing and living life as fully as they can, having dinner together in their shop full of rubber pipes or soffiting or toilet seats, or sitting on a dirty street together selling barbequed vegetables, with huge smiles.
Despite the grime, the struggle against a poverty complex and mindset that I'm not going to make it, this is better than being alone in my nice apartment on Main and 48th, and stuck in a job that suffocates me.
If I were to have to describe the colloquial terms "dive", "hole", "pigsty" to an alien, I might show them this place. The other people that live here don't seem to find that it affects their state of mind that much, although Sheri admitted that it did, once she noticed. What I admire about some people is that they are just too busy being utterly passionate about their biggest dreams in life, that two non-functioning clotheswashers, three revolting fridges (and more upstairs), grimy black-with-oil light switches, a moldy bathroom with a leaking shower, a storage room full of junk, with no door, behind the kitchen, random things dangling from the ceiling that were once nice in the 80s or when they weren't broken... don't really register.
It was a little difficult looking for a place during August, living in Lebrija. But in the end, the real problem was that I didn't want to promise some really nice fellow roommates that I'd stay for 3 months, and then find a job in another city, decide to go work on a farm, or go home. This was one of the few places I knew without going to major trouble, where staying for a month at a time was possible.
I feel that I have it pretty good with men noticing me, but I'm nowhere near Sheri's abilities in that field. She's turned down 13 guys since she got here. I think a couple of months. But going out the door of our apartment the other day, a really guapo guy caught her eye, and then he saw the door. She could tell he noticed it. Who wouldn't? It must be the dirtiest door on Calle Sol. I cleaned it halfway today. Anyways, I think I'm not going to clean much more, cause I'm here for the same goal as Sheri, really. To obtain a state of mind like Antonio Gades in the poster she showed me.
For years I have had a vague image of living on very little, in circumstances that others would perhaps not choose. Since I was a teenager I have badly wanted to put my mental and emotional energy towards some pursuit with passion, and possibly for a living. To that end I have for a long time thought that if it were necessary, I'd rather do without, if my spirit and soul could be satisfied. They certainly haven't been anywhere even remotely close to that, really ever. I suppose it is the typical artist thing. I do not believe that one "must" live poorly to be an artist, just that it often happens to be necessary.
Sheri considers nutrition extremely important and spent some time explaining that she thought is was a big problem in the flamenco world - that any aspect of the art (not just dancing) requires an enormous amount of energy due to the emotional intensity. In the past, along with the lifestyle in which flamenco began (a lifestyle from a different era, when people lived close together, had less things but of better quality) they had better food. We all had better food in the past, because it was picked closer to the time of eating, or was not grown in nutrient poor soil fertilised by simple chemical fertilisers, and thus, gave our bodies what they craved. She maintains this could even be a part of why the gitanos do drugs. They eat white flour spaghetti with ketchup and hot dogs, and then try to expend a massive amount of energy singing or dancing, so they need cocaine. Sheri doesn't have a centimo until she gets paid on Thursday. But she eats brown rice, quinoa, carrots, and no junk food. She spends an unbelievable E20 per week.
I do not know if I will continue to live like this. I certainly do not plan to continue living in this hovel. But if it suits my life's best direction, perhaps I can learn to do with very little. It has seemed depressing and scary to me to think about "depriving" myself of certain luxuries like having coffee or a glass of wine in a cafe, and I have struggled with that the entire time I've been here because my budget really doesn't include much for it. Up till now, I've felt that it is better to let myself do it, within reason, so as not to put myself in a depressing state of feeling deprived. But at this point, I can't afford it. There isn't anything very difficult about it, as long as the people you hang out with are doing the same. Without knowing that someone else in my house is doing the same thing, that we can hang out together sometimes in the evening, it would be impossible. Everything really depends on people. During the day Sheri is either at her studio painting, at flamenco classes, or else sitting in the lobby of a beautiful hotel reading (in order not to hang out here). This is the biggest thing that attracted me to China initially, despite its "ugliness" (all the bad things about it): the people are together laughing and living life as fully as they can, having dinner together in their shop full of rubber pipes or soffiting or toilet seats, or sitting on a dirty street together selling barbequed vegetables, with huge smiles.
Despite the grime, the struggle against a poverty complex and mindset that I'm not going to make it, this is better than being alone in my nice apartment on Main and 48th, and stuck in a job that suffocates me.
Friday, September 2, 2011
flamenco ghetto
bells just rang for 9:00, there is no more light coming from the skylight. canned seafood is bad; including tuna sometimes. I got my stuff from Alicia and Marta's place. the two most important things were olive oil and laundry soap. I laundered the bedcover and the lump of kitchen towels that kept getting shifted from chair to chair. I was sure the bedcover hadn't been washed for a while cause nothing else in this place has. I have to be careful not to burn the frying peppers. I got home from practicing (and immediately before that, from Alicia and Marta's, with my emptied out suitcase now full of food goods and random items that had been left there during August), and put stuff in the laundry, handwashed my silk scarf that I threw around my neck during practice cause i only had on a tank top (you learn dancing to wear lots of clothes even in the heat), and a top that got thrown back on after dancing, after wiping myself with a stinky cloth from which I cleaned my feet from dirty shoes soaked by rain. the top already stunk from walking around with too many clothes put on for the rain, and then suddenly sun, while carrying a suitcase - a cat suddenly ran past me. the peppers are now charred, how they are supposed to be, but one side is left to be done.
downstairs in the bar they are listening to a futbol game, obviously. I should be out but i needed to eat.
I have not yet paid Jose, who seems like a very nice person, but whose apartments are like main and hastings slum apartments. I didn't quite realise it when I took a quick look. They have a cuteness about them... it is for flamenco dancers only. Yesterday I posted this on facebook and Michael commented that it was a flamenco ghetto - romantic but smelly. He was right on on both counts.
Though the smell is the mold in the bathroom.
The cat smelled my tuna and got in from a window at the side that's connected to some random space in the apartment beside. All the roof tops are so close, and the balcony could also be reached from parts of other buildings.
Oh yeah... fried peppers. What I need now is lomo and jamon and bread. Which would be a certain kind of sandwich I forget the name of. (roast pork, ham and charred pepper).
An Italian surgeon that lives in Paris just left today. She was here for two weeks studying at Taller, the touristy flamenco place that some other friends have been to. There is a very sweet but very focussed seeming Japanese girl upstairs, as well as Jose's mother, Rosa. On my floor now there is only Sheri, who speaks English because she's from San Fransisco but is Persian and has spent 10 years in Italy so speaks Italian too.
Unfortunately I can't open the bottle of wine Sachiko gave me for my birthday the night before we all left to go other places, because there is no corkscrew in this apartment, in the kitchen on my floor or the one upstairs. There are countless (dirty) refrigerators and at least three clothes washing machines, only one of which works.
Today I realised that I am extremely dysfunctional. I am obsessive. About following my intuition in hopes that it will lead me somewhere better than where I am. In hopes that it will magically change my life, will rescue me from what I don't like about my life.
Overall, things are good because Sheri is really cool. I will go pay Jose for the rent (2 days late) and we are going to scrub the bathroom mold. Oh, and Rosa is really sweet. But it's a bit sad for me because she lives on the 3rd floor with really steep steps. Both days now she's said in an extremely cheery voice that she's going to go out for a "vueltacita" (a turn around the neighborhood - she is diminutizing the word vuelta) around 8:00 in the evening, so I've helped her down the stairs. She must be about 80, and has sciatica.
I've suddenly found out I am in the right place.
downstairs in the bar they are listening to a futbol game, obviously. I should be out but i needed to eat.
I have not yet paid Jose, who seems like a very nice person, but whose apartments are like main and hastings slum apartments. I didn't quite realise it when I took a quick look. They have a cuteness about them... it is for flamenco dancers only. Yesterday I posted this on facebook and Michael commented that it was a flamenco ghetto - romantic but smelly. He was right on on both counts.
Though the smell is the mold in the bathroom.
The cat smelled my tuna and got in from a window at the side that's connected to some random space in the apartment beside. All the roof tops are so close, and the balcony could also be reached from parts of other buildings.
Oh yeah... fried peppers. What I need now is lomo and jamon and bread. Which would be a certain kind of sandwich I forget the name of. (roast pork, ham and charred pepper).
An Italian surgeon that lives in Paris just left today. She was here for two weeks studying at Taller, the touristy flamenco place that some other friends have been to. There is a very sweet but very focussed seeming Japanese girl upstairs, as well as Jose's mother, Rosa. On my floor now there is only Sheri, who speaks English because she's from San Fransisco but is Persian and has spent 10 years in Italy so speaks Italian too.
Unfortunately I can't open the bottle of wine Sachiko gave me for my birthday the night before we all left to go other places, because there is no corkscrew in this apartment, in the kitchen on my floor or the one upstairs. There are countless (dirty) refrigerators and at least three clothes washing machines, only one of which works.
Today I realised that I am extremely dysfunctional. I am obsessive. About following my intuition in hopes that it will lead me somewhere better than where I am. In hopes that it will magically change my life, will rescue me from what I don't like about my life.
Overall, things are good because Sheri is really cool. I will go pay Jose for the rent (2 days late) and we are going to scrub the bathroom mold. Oh, and Rosa is really sweet. But it's a bit sad for me because she lives on the 3rd floor with really steep steps. Both days now she's said in an extremely cheery voice that she's going to go out for a "vueltacita" (a turn around the neighborhood - she is diminutizing the word vuelta) around 8:00 in the evening, so I've helped her down the stairs. She must be about 80, and has sciatica.
I've suddenly found out I am in the right place.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
One day 6 years ago I came out of work and sat on the steps. I had a thought that I might lose my job and my boyfriend, or was it my house and my boyfriend. I don't know why I had that thought, but it terrified me.
Then it happened.
I should not be afraid of all that much any more. I am afraid of less now.
Now I am not thinking I am going to lose anything in the near future. It's not really loss I'm talking about - it's clearing things out of the way so you can see what is really inside; or clearing things out of the way that you think you want or need but don't.
Today I came to Sevilla and I cried. Everything is so uncertain and has been that way for 8 months, or longer. At least the sky was dark and with clouds moving fast, and it rained. Something tells me that I am still doing the right thing. That only now that I've spent pretty much all my money, will things start to happen.
I think perhaps what I have done may not have been sensible, or the best choice. That is beside the point, because it was my choice. I have an image of myself as someone in control. The people that know me appear to have an image of me, when they praise me. I don't like either of these images and they are not me.
I am the girl who is lost like someone treading water in the middle of the ocean. I am the girl who had thousands of dollars and spent it doing nearly nothing in Spain, and ended up with no magical light dawning and showing her what direction to go. I am a person who goes around utterly terrified, playing a guessing game about what "the right answer" is, that some kind of intuition or spirit should show me, but my heart is so closed, and I am so terrified of people, that I cannot follow my own real desires, let alone some grandiose thing that makes magic happen. I am a very weak and lonely child that is utterly desperate for genuine warmth. I like these images because they are my reality and the other is only what people like to see.
I am remembering now what Ben said: certain money that was made in a certain way maybe will not benefit you unless it is spent in a certain way. The money was due to trying to live a life I didn't want, that I knew from the start wasn't right. It was due to fear. I could not spend it trying to build up my life in the material sense, or even in other senses approved by the rational mind. All of that has had to be undone first. I've known for years that I have not been ready and may only be beginning now, to be in the position to want or to earn a stable life with worldly trappings. All of that is ugly to me if I am living in fear, doing work that suppresses me.
Then it happened.
I should not be afraid of all that much any more. I am afraid of less now.
Now I am not thinking I am going to lose anything in the near future. It's not really loss I'm talking about - it's clearing things out of the way so you can see what is really inside; or clearing things out of the way that you think you want or need but don't.
Today I came to Sevilla and I cried. Everything is so uncertain and has been that way for 8 months, or longer. At least the sky was dark and with clouds moving fast, and it rained. Something tells me that I am still doing the right thing. That only now that I've spent pretty much all my money, will things start to happen.
I think perhaps what I have done may not have been sensible, or the best choice. That is beside the point, because it was my choice. I have an image of myself as someone in control. The people that know me appear to have an image of me, when they praise me. I don't like either of these images and they are not me.
I am the girl who is lost like someone treading water in the middle of the ocean. I am the girl who had thousands of dollars and spent it doing nearly nothing in Spain, and ended up with no magical light dawning and showing her what direction to go. I am a person who goes around utterly terrified, playing a guessing game about what "the right answer" is, that some kind of intuition or spirit should show me, but my heart is so closed, and I am so terrified of people, that I cannot follow my own real desires, let alone some grandiose thing that makes magic happen. I am a very weak and lonely child that is utterly desperate for genuine warmth. I like these images because they are my reality and the other is only what people like to see.
I am remembering now what Ben said: certain money that was made in a certain way maybe will not benefit you unless it is spent in a certain way. The money was due to trying to live a life I didn't want, that I knew from the start wasn't right. It was due to fear. I could not spend it trying to build up my life in the material sense, or even in other senses approved by the rational mind. All of that has had to be undone first. I've known for years that I have not been ready and may only be beginning now, to be in the position to want or to earn a stable life with worldly trappings. All of that is ugly to me if I am living in fear, doing work that suppresses me.
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