Cloudy flyday

Today has just stopped being Friday. And become something else entirely. Saturday perhaps. Looking outside the window, the sky is a dirty water red and it's nearly one of the clock in the morning. I have a buzzing sound in my ears which might be an incipient tinnitus or some kind of background noise radiation from the big bang.

Jacky is not very well. He has been crying for an hour or two, but is now under medication and next to me here in bed, not so fast asleep.

All of those exciting spaces

  Tomorrow is now today. Today is always a good day to go to the beach, as wasn't yesterday. The beach in question will almost certainly be Mera. There are, in fact three beaches in this little seaside village and here is a picture of the biggest one.

The beach at Mera

Of course, before going to the sea, we will almost certainly have to make another pilgrimage to the supermarket. These days, this can be pretty good fun.

How much?

And possibly to the park.

Was this, in fact, your first car?

Thinking up some naughtiness

In fact we did go for a walk this morning after breakfast.

Xurxo, Daddy's breakfast

Daddy's Lunch

These are destined to be chorizo (spicy sausage), avocado, and a cheese, which is remarkably like Stilton, sandwiches. There are still two vital ingredients missing of course; "Extra Virgin" olive oil and Balsamic vinegar.

There is still cecina in the fridge for this evening. Cecina is further proof that God exists. It is the most delicious food known to mankind and is, simply, cured beef.

Cecina

Can't say the photo looks too appetizing though.


Poem for today (the schoolboy's favourite)

The Highwayman
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding-- Riding--riding-- The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door. He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh. And he rode with a jeweled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky. Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred; He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked; His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay, But he loved the landlord's daughter, The landlord's red-lipped daughter, Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-- "One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way." He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West. He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon, When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching-- Marching--marching-- King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door. They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side. There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride. They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest. They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast. "Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say-- Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good. She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood. They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers! The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest. Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast. She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain. Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still! Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death. He turned; he spurred to the west; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood. Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew gray to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. Back, he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat. And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding-- Riding--riding-- A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard; He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Sunny day

Today is Sunday and a good day to go to the beach and get salty.

Reach out - again

We got up this morning in a particularly good mood. After having a bath with daddy, a yellow duck, a green frog and Mr. Sponge and having drunk practically all the bath water We are in a fabulous mood. As you can see.

Life is beautiful

Time for a nice walk in the morning.

Gilty about to knock Jacob over

My little pine forest

The trees give off a kind of sticky liquid with a pungent piny aroma, pine gum, which, if I remember from my o level woodwork classes hardens and eventually becomes amber.

Looks a bit like icing sugar

Turns into something which looks like it could be used for incense

That's the morning done and dusted. The afternoon means going to the beach.

Power to the people

Who buried those feet 

The sand round here is particularly tasty

The weather is holding up. Me too. Now it's next week and I have just visited a company called Netex. It's a local company but pretty big and expanding into America and England. They specialise in E-learning. I didn't know, but I teach the boss's kids. Essentially, they deal with sophisticated video conferencing systems and computerised support and delivery platforms for training and education. Everything has its acronym. Smolts and bolts and dolts smarfs.

What I wanted was a good voice recognition programme like the ones the new smart phones have. This would enable students and parents to do English conversational homework together. At the moment none of the kids that don't have the privilege of going to private English schools have enough conversational practice.

Enough:

Oil And Blood

IN tombs of gold and lapis lazuli
Bodies of holy men and women exude
Miraculous oil, odour of violet.
But under heavy loads of trampled clay
Lie bodies of the vampires full of blood;
Their shrouds are bloody and their lips are wet.

A bit of Saturday

I managed a full week of daily postings. From now on you should expect some irregularity. It's good for the soul.

Here, however, are a few pictures and a video from last week.

Taken a few days ago, this video is a master class in risk assessment and environmental analysis. It's not the same to "let things slide" as to just; "slide". I'm learning a lot.

Today is still Saturday. As I mentioned, I'm superstitious. I guess this means that signs or portents or anything which has some resonance with my two neurons, but has absolutely no rational basis, can indicate some hidden pitfall or a great boon.  

First thing this morning, on the way to breakfast, we met a nun in full regalia, wimple and stuff. They often cruise in pairs which would have been ok but this one was a solitary beast. Being dressed up in black and white is the human equivalent of a magpie. We did have a natter with her though, which might mitigate the bad luck, like saying "Hello captain" to the avian variety. Later on we also discovered, or rather the dogs discovered, a black cat that had recently gone to meet his maker. I consider black cats to be lucky, so this is like discovering the death of good fortune.  

Don't be silly daddy!

   

Later on in the day, as you might divine from the photo we went to the beach. And there was no bad luck.
He now has a few very nice habits. Saying hello to everybody, sometimes cars as well. He blows a mean kiss, and says goodbye. He' s almost pronouncing "yes" properly too. On a good day it comes out as, "yea".

After breakfast we take the dogs for their constitutional. At the beginning of the walk, at least, Jacob still goes in the back pack and the dogs drag me cross-country.

Tricky footwear

And some very pretty flowers in the park in Santa Cristina

Various wild flowers on the walk too

Poem for today; (This is a poem that has obsessed me for many years) It's a "rondel" and the structure is very strict and difficult to write. Typically they are based around a very limited number of rhymes and, according to Wikipedia the structure is as follows: The first two lines of the first stanza are refrains, repeating as the last two lines of the second stanza and the third stanza. (Alternately, only the first line is repeated at the end of the final stanza). For instance, if A and B are the refrains, a rondel will have a rhyme scheme of ABba abAB abbaA(B)
The meter is open, but typically has eight syllables. In this one there are ten. It's somewhere between a song and a prayer.

From To X 
 

The car arrived that brought you to the place: 
As you got out I saw your very groin. 
Thus goddesses, nude upon a distant quoin 
Reveal their chaste religion to the race. 

The aged, usual guests who sit or pace, 
By chance I casually wandered out to join: 
The car arrived that brought you to the place; 
As you got out I saw your very groin. 

Later it seemed impossible to trace, 
As you politely spooned your macedoine, 
That I had known the dark skin near the loin; 
Already in another time and space 
The car arrived that brought you to the place. 

* * * 

The long road greyly striping scarp and vale 
Ran from the city to our meeting place. 
You came by quieter and more devious ways. 
Like beasts, our two cars rested nose to tail. 

I left a lie behind to smudge the trail, 
And, conjuring up your speculative embrace 
(The long road greyly striping scarp and vale), 
Ran from the city to our resting place. 

Whose lie was it made the sunshine fail, 
Who knows? It was a fairly equal case. 
Rain started, as I set out to retrace 
(Passing at first your face, returning, pale) 
The long road greyly striping scarp and vale. 

* * * 

I rediscovered during our affair 
Perceptions that in my Dark Age had gone. 
How, say, astonishingly high upon 
The spine the fastening of a brassiere. 

That every trivial thing in earth and air 
Can constitute a mysterious eidolon, 
I rediscovered during our affair. 
Perceptions that in my dark age had gone 

(The prurient disproportion of the bare: 
Pinks, so conceived of, nearer cinnamon), 
But that the gift of the youthful simpleton 
To make dearth richness was in disrepair, 
I rediscovered during our affair. 

* * * 

From the great distance at the end of caring 
I saw our weak attempt at happiness; 
Of you recalled a certain buttoned dress, 
Cringed at my characteristic lack of daring. 

The tortuous machinery of pairing 
In our case seemed of utter pointlessness 
From the great distance at the end of caring. 
I saw our weak attempt at happiness 

Related only to the lust for sparing 
Our lives the terror of complete success. 
And gone the absorbing, vital kind of chess 
I played to bring about your baring, 
From the great distance at the end of caring.

waffle, piffle, wiffle

Where have those blue eyes come from?

As you can see, I have a new toy. I hasten to add I am not referring to my son. I am doing a smattering of graphic design. I only wish I had a similar programme to smooth out the creases wrinkling up my life.

The dark queen is brandishing and, indeed, wielding all of her metaphorical instruments of torture. I am simply not built for this kind of meek subjugation. I am too thin-skinned. I am an over-ripe tomato.

I can't talk yet, but from my vantage point on the supermarket trolley, all I can see is the decline of  capitalistic excess and Western decadence

Once every three days I find myself in a supermarket. Nothing strange about that. Everybody I see is a zombie though. The process of buying things en masse seems to be like painting your brain with nail varnish. The woman at the cold meats counter has a nice smile which contradicts me.

The view from the hotel where I currently give one of my classes. 

The city on the horizon is Coruña

Work is lodestone. This is good. I've been teaching for 22 years now and I am, at least, competent.  Teaching a language is a bit easier than teaching history or zoology. You only have to speak to your students to find out if your classes have been any good.

Back to the countryside. This is the answer to everything. Except hay fever.

Conceivably, if I manage to get my house back, I could probably live on very little income indeed. A lot of neighbours grow practically all their own food. I have a well. A bicycle and a highly charged personality to generate electricity. And, hallucinogenic flowers. 

Morning glory is a common name^[where?] for over 1,000 species of flowering plants in the familyConvolvulaceae, whose current taxonomy and systematics is in flux. Morning glory species belong to many genera,

 This picture was taken by me. After consuming the plant itself, it might look something like this:

Nature's LSD

Of course, all consumption of drugs, whether they be, coffee, alcohol, or heroin must be some some kind of escape from the human condition. Then again, if you are a romantic poet or a Tantric Buddhist, they help you to embrace it.

I remember taking magic mushrooms when I was about 19. I'm not sure if it's possible to overdose on fungi but, if so, I must have been pretty close. Going on to Darwen moors and picking thousands and then microwaving them in batches of 50 to produce a kind of biscuit that looked like a pot noodle but tasted like a particularly sweaty sock after being dug up from a mass grave.

We went to a night club whose name escapes me. There might of been about 6 of us. Two of us experimenting with the magic biscuits and four people staring curiously and vigilantly on. I ate one 50 mushroom slab, waited about 5 minutes and nothing happened. Under such circumstances it seemed only logical to eat another one straight away. I remember standing on a disco dance floor with the place relatively empty, contorted in fits of laughter. I laughed so hard it was physically painful. Tears streamed down my face and it was a Herculean effort just to catch my breath. Everybody seemed to be wearing brightly coloured grease paint ready for a carnival. Noses were extravagantly long and pointy and eyebrows and eyelashes were gold or silver. A few people were completely naked.

The lasting sensation I have, even after all this time, is that everything I saw or heard or felt was irrefutably real. Overwhelmed by my senses, I stared at the floor precisely where Craig Nicholson's shoes were located. He was sitting next to me at the time and wearing them. They were blue "Kickers" with white laces and were all the rage. They turned into two enormous butterflies and flew away. I could pass my hands through solid objects and, once I was finally in bed, I was able to paint great works of art on the ceiling just with my imagination. Mind expanding. I wouldn't do it again though. Life is psychedelic and scary enough already.

Climbing Framed

I digress. Here is today's poem:

Risk

I love you first and last

You are a different caste,

Beyond my ken, my reckoning.

You are the zest, the loveliest

Of messengers of God.

And I can only kneel

And steal a glance

Perchance to see

How you pierce me.

Someday

Sunday, Sunday. Breakfast, walk with dogs, confrontation with a green monster.

Jacob

 Sunday is a day of rest. So it's also a day for reflection. I have no need of anything and no debilitating angst today. The weather is threatening though. The sky is saving itself up for an apocalyptic deluge in the afternoon, but for now we are safe.


The dogs are as enthusiastic as ever and Syrup is worryingly fat. 


Sergio, Loreto's son, arrived from Madrid this morning, so she is happy and busy trying to organise things?

Sergio and Loreto

  Her daughter, Alba, is still in Madrid.


Here is a picture of the green monster:

Green monster

I'm not entirely sure what it is. It looks too big to be a grass hopper and too small to be a komodo dragon or an elephant. 

If it's a grass hopper, it's in the wrong place for vegetation

Looking for the wild strawberries

  That's your lot for Sunday. We did go to the beach in the afternoon and very nice it was. My metal detector was primed and ready for hunting for coins, watches and jewellery but I didn't manage to wait until the beach was deserted.


Poem:

THE FORCE THAT THROUGH THE GREEN FUSE DRIVES THE FLOWER

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

Saturnineday

As you can see, Saturday was yet another day spent escaping from the paparazzi. That bald bloke with the mobile phone is particularly annoying.

seaward

Saturday has been a relaxing day with lots of ice cream.

The Spanish media is still awash with the ramifications of the cuts announced by the government on Wednesday. VAT is up from 18 to 21%. Reductions in unemployment benefit. Elimination of the tax break for paying the mortgage on your first house. etc. Nobody is talking about how to get people, particularly young people, producing stuff. The unemployment rate in Spain is about 25%. If you are under 25 you're lucky if you have work. There's a lot of inertia: (the resistance of any physical object to a change in its state of motion or rest) and very little momentum: (a vector quantity, possessing a direction as well as a magnitude). The only direction would seem to be over the nearest precipice.

A huge number of young Spanish people stay at home with their parents until they are well into their late twenties. By this time, of course, they have no imagination, no drive and weigh their independence against a well-stocked fridge in the parental home. No contest.

Consumer choice

Helping daddy do the shopping. The hypermarket near the flat is pretty good. The problem is falling into temptation. The cured beef is too delicious to ignore and too expensive not to feel guilty about.

Down hill from now on

The crisis hasn't affected the upkeep of the parks and public spaces yet. The city is still beautiful and flowery.

In the park in Santa Cristina

Overlooking the estuary at low tide

I have dusted down my metal detector for tomorrow. Let's see if Jacky will help me do some digging.

Today's poem might be one of the greatest in the English language:

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.                                         "If I but thought that my response were made to one perhaps returning to the world, this tongue of flame would cease to flicker. But since, up from these depths, no one has yet returned alive, if what I hear is true, I answer without fear of being shamed."[18]

LET us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats         5 Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question….         10 Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,         15 The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,         20 And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window panes;         25 There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate;         30 Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go         35 Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—         40 (They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”) My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”) Do I dare         45 Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,         50 I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room.   So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all—         55 The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?         60   And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress         65 That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.   And should I then presume?   And how should I begin? .      .      .      .      .      .      .      . Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets         70 And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?… I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. .      .      .      .      .      .      .      . And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!         75 Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep … tired … or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?         80 But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,         85 And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while,         90 To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—         95 If one, settling a pillow by her head,   Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;   That is not it, at all.” And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while,         100 After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:         105 Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say:   “That is not it at all,   That is not what I meant, at all.” .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .         110 No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use,         115 Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old … I grow old …         120 I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.         125 I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown         130 Till human voices wake us, and we drown. T.S. Elliot was certainly a genius but probably an idiot. (You can certainly be both at the same time) He thought Wilfred Owen's poetry was rubbish!