Fryday

Today is Friday the 13th. It's supposed to be unlucky because of Good Friday and the number of people at the Last Supper. I am superstitious so I should be careful today. In Spain, Tuesday the 13th is considered to be unlucky. Who knows why?

This morning I have to go to a place called IMELGA which is a judicial public body that will assess the injuries sustained in the confrontation with my squatter. This is a fairly simple procedure since there were none. The interview involves a doctor, a laconic, softly spoken, pleasant chappy, comparing the medical report, which the police advised me to obtain, with my present state of health, scars etc.. The meeting is brief  with Jacob sitting on my knee the whole time. The squatter will have had to undergo a similar interview. Doubtless, he will have milked the whole thing for all it's worth. I now have to wait for a date for the hearing.

Yet another office
(the excitement is too much!)

The remains of the morning, we spend in the old town. Which is old, but not really a town. It's where Jacob was baptised and has about four or five beautiful Romanic churches.

Typical houses

The main square

convent in a pretty little square where the brass band sometimes plays

The afternoon filled itself out with a couple of classes. The first with a nice young doctor who does kung fu with me and the second with a completely crazy middle aged women who also used to do kung fu with me, but 20 years ago. Her young son is also crazy. If her husband is sane he deserves a prize.

In the evening we went out to eat prawns in a local spit and sawdust bar. The deliciousness of the food is inversely proportional to the salubriousness of the surroundings. We ate, tortilla which contained cured spicy Galician sausage, tripe with chick peas, "callos" in Spanish (pronounced, "cajos"), and a big plate of griddled prawns, which are totally irresistible. This was accompanied by a local wine, "ulla". It's low in alcohol but tastes of the countryside and is bursting with citrus fruitiness. It's pink but not a rosé.

worth getting your hands sticky

ulla

First attempts with a fork

looking tasty

Today's poem:


ON THE TRAIN BETWEEN
WELLINGTON AND SHREWSBURY

The process starts—
on the rails pigs' blood,
lambs' blood in the trees

With a red tail
through the slab-white sky
the blood bird flies

This man beside me
is offering friendly
sandwiches of speech:

he's slaughtered twenty pigs
this morning—
he takes away
the sins of the word

I can smell his jacket,
it's tripe-coloured,
old tripe,
drained-out, veteran tripe
that has digested the world

I shut my eyes on
his lullaby of tripe

and the blood goes back to bed

(Someone's got to do it
and I'm grateful
and my neighbour's grateful
and we say so,
but thank God it's only
fourteen minutes to Shrewsbury)

Fourteen minutes to consider
the girl reading Scott Fitzgerald—
she has a red cashmere top
bright as a butcher's window

Shut out the sun and the cameras—
I want to talk to a doctor
about Circe's magic circle—
‘you see, it was on the woman herself
the bristles sprang
and the truffle-hunting tongue'

What is it makes my penis
presentable?
hot blood—
enough of it, in the right place

With such red cheeks
my interlocutor from the abattoirs
must have hypertension

On his knees he has
a lumpish parcel, well-knotted
with white string—
it makes all the difference
when you know it's really fresh

At one time our species
always had it fresh;
one time there were no cashmere tops
or butcher's shops

It consoles me that poems
bring nothing about,
it hurts me that poems
do so little

I was born after
man invented meat
and a shepherd invented poetry

At a time when there are only
fourteen killing minutes
between Wellington and Shrewsbury.

Thawsday

The dark forces at definitely at work. They are gathering strength like the big black cumulus clouds outside the window. I'm not complaining. I had breakfast with Jacky this morning a usual and we then went for a brief stroll around the city centre.

Better mood than yesterday but contemplative

Much better mood than yesterday

In the lift

Who's that strange wrinkly git?

Parked up in the busiest shopping street in the city

Chocolate and churros for breaky

Where we live

The foyer with lifts 

The rush hour

Not a lot of social comment today. What a relief. Loreto and I went to the cinema this afternoon to see fictionalized film about Edgar Alan Poe; Quoth the Raven never more. Ravens are corvids like a magpies. Not bad .

It's now 11ºclock and "Enter the Dragon" is on the telly box again. Bruce Lee is the dragon. If you do kung fu like what I do, this is the film for you.

no caption needed

Poem of the day:            


                 Ode to a Nightingale

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 

'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 

But being too happy in thine happiness, - 

That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 

In some melodious plot 

Of beechen green and shadows numberless, 

Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been 

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, 

Tasting of Flora and the country green, 

Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! 

O for a beaker full of the warm South, 

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 

And purple-stained mouth; 

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 

And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known, 

The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; 

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; 

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 

And leaden-eyed despairs, 

Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee, 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 

But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: 

Already with thee! tender is the night, 

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 

Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; 

But here there is no light, 

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows 

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; 

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; 

Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; 

And mid-May's eldest child, 

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 

Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 

To take into the air my quiet breath; 

Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 

To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 

In such an ecstasy! 

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain - 

To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 

No hungry generations tread thee down; 

The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown: 

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 

She stood in tears amid the alien corn; 

The same that oft-times hath 

Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well 

As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. 

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 

Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 

Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep 

In the next valley-glades: 

Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 

Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?

Darkling I listen - haven't managed that for a while

Whensday?

Not the best of mornings. In fact it was an awful morning. Magpies, incidentally are monogamous and more intelligent than most primates. They both make and adapt tools and have a sense of playfulness. So if you see one on his own, make sure you say hello. I haven't seen a lone magpie this morning or I might have been forewarned.

I had to go to the dole office. What the Spanish social security service lacks in desolutory, crapulous desperation, it makes up for in shear stupidity; a bureaucratic ineptitude designed to test Buddha.

Dole Office

Jacky didn't seem to mind the place though. He danced, swaggered about, sang, and was friendly towards everybody, an ambassador for humankind and the power of a broad smile.

Rest period - who is my next target?

 I had an appointment for precisely 10:12 Hours. This was my third visit. The office already had all of my details and copies of my wage slips, contract and assorted stuff. The person who designed the appointment system must have had a sense of humour. Not ten past ten or ten o'clock but, "10:12 hours". It seems to suggest a demanding level of precision. At approximately 12 0'clock I find myself in front of a personage who looks like she wouldn't mind bringing back corporal punishment - for the under 5's. She had a sneer on her lip, the product of scorn, a misguided sense of superiority, and loathing all mixed up with lemon juice and castor oil (whatever that is). She was neurologically challenged. Or, as we used to say, a cretin. One of those people whose default position is a kind of aggressive intransigence. She all but refused to explain anything and expected me to be on my way. To cut a long story short, after a few minutes I was incandescent. I have to go back in two weeks. This hare-brained job's-worth, and others like her, is only one of the problems with Spanish bureaucracy. The other two are that there is a lot of corruption and no meritocracy only mediocrity.

When I got out of the building my car was covered in about one tonne (metric) of bird shit. The logistical likelihood of covering a car in so much shit in such a relatively short time leads me to think that there are dark forces at work. This suspicion was reinforced by the substantial dent on the driver's side. Jacky also received a nasty scratch on his cheek while playing with a pretty little girl in the dole office; Here's where you start learning about the fairer sex. Now, I need a booster.

"cafe con leche, largo de cafe"

This is, as you might conceivably have guessed, a picture of my coffee. It embodies everything that is right with Spanish culture. It's strong, delicious and supremely invigorating.



Here is today's poem:

Poetry of Departures

Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand,
As epitaph:
He chucked up everything
And just cleared off,
And always the voice will sound
Certain you approve
This audacious, purifying,
Elemental move.

And they are right, I think.
We all hate home
And having to be there:
I detest my room,
It's specially-chosen junk,
The good books, the good bed,
And my life, in perfect order:
So to hear it said

He walked out on the whole crowd
Leaves me flushed and stirred,
Like Then she undid her dress
Or Take that you bastard;
Surely I can, if he did?
And that helps me to stay
Sober and industrious.
But I'd go today,

Yes, swagger the nut-strewn roads,
Crouch in the fo'c'sle
Stubbly with goodness, if
It weren't so artificial,
Such a deliberate step backwards
To create an object:
Books; china; a life
Reprehensibly perfect.

Chewsday

This video is cheating slightly. It was taken on Sunday. But I was thinking about Tuesday. 

 

Omar Sheriff approaching in "Lawrence of Arabia" 

(without the horse or falcon)

Tuesday. Is Tuesday a good day? Of course it is. It was a rhetorical question. We've got a running start from Monday, not many classes and lots of time for fun. For some people it's a bit difficult getting up in the morning though. Whilst for others, it's not getting up which is the problem.

Let me out!

  

We are already feeling a tad better. With a bit of coffee and cake in the body all is well with the world. Next stop, the science museum, the "Domus". A monumental edifice that looks like it might be a homage to partition walls. The roof and most of the facade is covered in blue slate. 

The world's largest blackboard

As I said, we are feeling much better.

Let's go!

And once we are inside. I might have to annoy young Jacob by taking more pictures.

How tall?

It might have killed the cat

but in this case, in the science museum, curiosity is pretty good fun 

What control, technique, concentration!

Hard to believe though it may be, the above photo was taken in the science museum. It's part of an exhibit that shows you the speed at which you can kick a football. Jacob's style is still based on dribbling, particularly when the dummy is out.

Getting ready for the penalty shoot out

A purposeful gait

The thinker in a blue funk

In 24 hours this is exactly how I would feel (I'm writing on Wednesday). Exposed, on the rocks and a bit thin. Tuesday, however, finishes with my kung fu class which is enervating. Enough said.


Poem for today:

Indoor Games Near Newbury

In among the silver birches,
Winding ways of tarmac wander
And the signs to Bussock Bottom,
Tussock Wood and Windy Break.
Gabled lodges, tile-hung churches
Catch the lights of our Lagonda
As we drive to Wendy’s party,
Lemon curd and Christmas cake

Rich the makes of motor whirring
Past the pine plantation purring
Come up Hupmobile Delage.
Short the way our chauffeurs travel
Crunching over private gravel,
Each from out his warm garage.

O but Wendy, when the carpet
Yielded to my indoor pumps.
There you stood, your gold hair streaming,
Handsome in the hall light gleaming
There you looked and there you led me
Off into the game of Clumps.

Then the new Victrola playing;
And your funny uncle saying
"Choose your partners for a foxtrot.
Dance until it's tea o'clock
Come on young 'uns, foot it feetly."
Was it chance that paired us neatly?
I who loved you so completely.
You who pressed me closely to you,
Hard against your party frock.

"Meet me when you've finished eating."
So we met and no one found us.
O that dark and furry cupboard,
While the rest played hide-and-seek.
Holding hands our two hearts beating.
In the bedroom silence round us
Holding hands and hardly hearing
Sudden footstep, thud and shriek

Love that lay too deep for kissing.
"Where is Wendy? Wendy's missing."
Love so pure it had to end.
Love so strong that I was frightened
When you gripped my fingers tight.
And hugging, whispered "I'm your friend."

Goodbye Wendy. Send the fairies,
Pinewood elf and larch tree gnome.
Spingle-spangled stars are peeping
At the lush Lagonda creeping
Down the winding ways of tarmac
To the leaded lights of home.

There among the silver birches,
All the bells of all the churches
Sounded in the bath-waste running
Out into the frosty air.
Wendy speeded my undressing.
Wendy is the sheet's caressing
Wendy bending gives a blessing.
Holds me as I drift to dreamland
Safe inside my slumber wear

Never been to Newbury, but when I get my Lagonda, that's where I'm going to carefully place my hat.

Monday

For me this is experimental, so bear with me. It's Monday the 9th of July and Jacky has just done a backward leap off the bed attempting a triple salco. After the first double twist he smacked the back of his head on the oak parquet flooring. The recovery was celebrated by sticking his finger up daddy's nose until it bled profusely. 

                  Watching England versus Italy
                   (Don't laugh, you're half English!)

In the morning we take mummy to work. Then we have a coffee and a stroll round the park in the city centre. Some soil analysis is followed by dog chasing. We weren't particularly impressed by the roses.

This one hasn't even got any flowers

But of course there are some quite nice blossoms, this being a rose garden and all.

After trying to shake daddy off for a good hour we decide to give up and go home. 

Not too happy about all these photos

Once we are home, the kitchen is the place to be. No longer the culinary centre of the house, the kitchen is now the fusion dance centre; hip hop, break, the pogo and the dying fly........................

What better way to end the afternoon than a swift stroll with the dogs. Having to sneak into one's own garden is a bit hard hard to swallow. In fact there isn't much sneaking involved because the grass and weeds are so high you need a machete and a pith helmet just to reach the front door.

Tricky taking a picture like this

Beware of the ferocious Galician wolf
Canis Lupus cuddlius

The poem for the day; coz you gotta get a bit of kultcha

 The World Is Too Much with Us

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not. --Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.




Sounds spot on to me.