The Seven Dwarves

My fingers are sore and the space between my thumb and forefinger is red from dense, dry wood. I can feel the branches in my skin. Its amazing what goes into the making of olive oil, the production of something seemingly so simple. How we go to the supermarket, pick out of fifteen choices of extra virgin glass bottles, pour it in our pans, lay it on crusty bread, shake it with lemon juice. The complexities of life never cease to amaze me; The time in between, the waiting, the warmth and then bamboo canes we thrust in twisting branches. Olives are so beautiful. The less mature, the more green, the more mature, the deeper purple. I love to find the ones that are changing, the spotted and mis shaped. I’d like a sea of small trees, fresh juicy olives, and an old one for hand picking. I’d spend our seventy two hours in ever branch, in each crevice, touching each fruit. I wonder how the oil would taste different if our fingers sorted through the branches as opposed to the wind. This work seems relevant to an overall appreciation of the universe. These trees are so thick and bent, I love their slate coloured trunks. Its amazing, just amazing, that they’ve been rooted, and circling ,and to think of all of the hands that have picked, the bodies they have held. The bottoms of my feet are brown and I think tomorrrow I’ll wear boots, but maybe not. Lunch has never tasted better at four o’clock after sweaty palms and hours spent in the sky.

Three O'clock in the Morning

I love the sea, striped eggplants, wind clouds and hazy blue skies, wooden beams, wicker chairs, concord grapes, olive tree trunks, bitter oranges, red ceramic mugs, plastered walls, topographic maps, dim ceiling lights, eight pointed star tiles in the floor, soft sheets and woven curtains, the way that spanish men cross their legs, red wine and pears, mountain hawks, moon river, bushes of rosemary, and sunday mornings.

The beach was rocky and the sand was black, I love the way the sun makes your back hot and the water sizzles your skin.
In the evening, we listened to Spanish folk songs and when an older man spoke Spanish, then German, English and French, we asked where he was from, and a woman answered, "Ah, Le Monde."

I love mysteries and marmelade for breakfast.

Then and Now

When I grow old, I want to hang my linens from a rope in the Albayzin.

We have left Granada, but only for now, with a soft, and most faint smile, with memories of eventide piano recitals and yellow mangos in November. From the terrace, the city is a sea of sequins, distant and sparkling.

Walking through a market is like seeing the entire world; the withered and pungent, the doubt and colour, the sweaters and perspiration, the conversation and autumn fruits.

Orjiva is quaint and beautiful. Being in the valley, the morning muffles the church bells with mist, and makes the mountains appear as holograms. Living in such a place is like infinitly nestling in your mothers arms, warm and quiet. Surrounding the land are trees with ornamnets of orange, of pomegranate, walnut and almond, and of course, the small, but intricate olive. The colour of leaves on olive trees reminds me of sage, chalky and fresh. I love every part of the day here, the coolness of dawn, the heat of siesta, the hush of evening, and the piercing dark. From our little yard, you can see Orion's belt, and in the distance, the light illuminating from street lamps. The bells ring at every hour, but somehow time feels lost up here. We are not busy, but rather, conscious of the day and useful with its time. Working with your hands, the intricacy of our thumbs, of our pointers, the usefullness of our bodies as a whole, is so very complex. To share your strength, however much it may be, on land, and in dirt, is so very important. In the evening we crack walnuts from the backyard and saute them with honey. The least I can say now, is that life here is yummy. Our sheets have small prints of yellow flowers, and before I go to bed, I look forward to marmelade at breakfast.

7 November 2009

Flamenco dancers would make incredible lovers.
One finds themselves holding their breath, captivated by the movements of each finger, each tap. The intricate and asymmetrical technique is a glorious dialect of yearning and passion. You are so indivdually intimate with the performer, so close to their transmission of emotion, the shine on their brown, the normality of their figure. The clapping and singing is seemingly uneven, but represents the complete complexity of human desire. For it is while engulfed in such a recital that the viewer jumps, literally, in their seats - shifts their feet, widens their eyes. What bitter zeal the performers illuminate, sweat falling off of their eyelashes. Every moment is so full of struggle, of antcipation, of affection. And to know, that at one in the morning, after the finale, these men and women, are, well, human. How wonderful, and yet completely mystifying.
In an obscure way, such an experience is how I imagine birth to be - enormous, painful, and yet, in a very sgnficant way, strangely acute. Who would´ve guessed that eighteen years later, this, of all places, is where I would be on November seventh.

Cebolla, Naranjas, Caqui

Spanish: There is something so peculiar about language – the creation of words, of sounds, and the overall development of communication through articulation. It seems to me that as human beings, we find it most difficult to have the inability to understand. It has the potential to be incredibly frustrating, the lack of knowing. It always seems to be somewhat of a continuous smile or nod, with the occasional “si” or “no”. It is only with such irritability that we realize, on a more grand scale, the real connectivity that our species has in spite of our lack of comprehension. We can understand, or at least begin to, by being in our most simple of forms, to merely be human, and thus, inevitably vulnerable. To make mistakes, ah, to be wrong! We fear this so much, and though it is of great complexity it holds infinite importance - To squint, and to bite our lips, to correct, and to learn, to smile, and to hope, greatly, that we never make the same mistake again. For now, we’re back in elementary school, learning our fruits and vegetables.

Jupiter Part II

Yesterday: The Albaycin winds uphill towards quaint corners and tilted cafes. Most of the porches hold potted cacti or crawling flowers. The parks, at seista time, are busy with kids too young for school, and fathers with strollers. On this particular afternoon, a sign reading "Marroqui" caught my eye and in my best North African Arabic, I treated Kaye to a late birthday meal of cous cous, pasteyla, les epinards, and shebekkia. Thus far, the epicenter of our diet has been Andalusian tropical fruits - the occasional loaf of bread is purchaced from certain bakers or young ladies on the street. But mostly, it is just naranjas. So, this was a lovely, and rare treat for our aching stomachs.
On this evening, Antonia began her conversation with translations - different animals, certain tenses, and so on. Lets just say she is a very, well, persistant lady.

Today: Eight o'clock a.m. Slowly rolling out of bed, we made the trek across one road to see La Alhambra. I am certain that this, more than anything, is the most breathtaking structure that I have seen and touched. The calligraphy is cold and the ceilings drip with passages from the Qur'an. The gardens surrounding the marble palace are pungent from pink roses and giant trees. It was like walking in the Redwoods, or the Sahara, so very divine, but so much more finite.

We walked downhill to our favourite corner of town, and were more wholly satisfied, after such emotional stimulation, with toasted bread and marmelade from our little cafe.
The sky here is so blue, so absolutely blue, and perfect, just like mangos and caqui for breakfast.

Antonia

Granada, Spain
Down the street from our little room there is, what seems to be, miles of construction.
Leather on our feet, we decided to venture into the havoc. The corner holds a small Cafe, and it was beyond necessary at twelve in the afternoon, and after seventeen hours of sleep the previous night, to quench our firey passion for chocolate glazed pasteries. Not knowing much Spanish, we strolled up to the glass case, wided eyed and nervous. Thirty or Forty seconds must of passed when a small woman - she musn't be higher than four four, her teeth small and square, thin hair that waved grey, wrinkles on the tip of her pointer - who, in much detail, shared with us the sultry details of every eclair and apple tart. All in Spanish, of course. Three and a half hours of conversations, mostly nodding and smiling, and the occasional French translation, Antonia told us of her husband. She visited him in Tetouan during the War, "j'etait tres jeune, bien sur", and has many children, some who live in America. I'm not sure if Antonia is conscious of saving paper, but she did an excellent job of writing out words in Spanish, then French with maps and numbers on numerous napkins. We drew a map of Michigan, in all its glory, and realized that the body of water beneath the Mackinaw Bridge, seperating the Lower from the Upper Peninsula, is exactly like the Straight of Gibralter between Spain and Morocco. And thus, we spoke of land, and took small bites of our chocolate croissant and sips here and there of Cafe con Leche. She almost forgot her navy over jacket that covered her floral button up shirt. She slipped it on, and we walked to the noise. We all bid our farwells, kissing cheeks and exchanging telephone numbers.
We ended up walking in a circle, our brains exhausted, turned the key in the door of Pension AB, lifted our sheets, and fell asleep.