I remember looking at the gay men in Sitges, Spain and thinking that they had a freedom, at least in a gay town, that straight men cannot afford.
A social freedom that afforded them the license to party, dress freely, be creative, hypersocialize, etc. at any age.
So I am living the life of a gay man but I don’t like men.
Gay Boy
Magic is just what exists outside of my capacity to calculate.
Just before 4pm in the winter the sun begins it’s denouement. It pours in through the window above my desk and reflects off the long horizontal mirror on the opposite wall back onto the shelf just to the right of the window. I had been on the computer for sometime writing a term paper. I needed a break for movement – to get the lymph through. I began moving deliberately with my socks on -controlled and measured slides on the floor, twists, flows, and pours. I was moving to some electronic music I had slowed down (lusine – shin -1.5x). A shortwave radio has been on all day at low volume, between stations, occilating. The playlist proceeded and so did my temperature. I began to feel fluid-like, warm and supple. My motion became more trusting (risky, violent) and yet more deliberate – running the line between control and surrender. My consciousness filled my body – my critical mind evacuated. I felt like drooling, sobbing, vomitting – entire.
Reflected light
window
Drop entirely off the face of the earth. Let your hands receive your fingers. Let your arms receive your hands. Limbs absorbed by the trunk absorbed by the head, eyes close, breath stops – finally some fucking silence.
The last two days in Spain were spent in Madrid. Here we’ve been guests in a very large house with automated security window blinds, a discotek, wine cellar, tanning machine, and a parking garage with a few Bentlys among other toys. The inhabitants are a delightful and varied bunch of “gente conocida” that have provided excellent hospitality. The widow that hosted us has a disease of extrasensitivity. As we enter the house we are implored to shut off all electronic devices especially cellphones. We dine in the dark. She has an iron gate at the door of her bedroom and a gun on her desk. Her parents are staying here while she mourns the death of her recently deceased husband. They otherwise live in Galicia where they keep a garden that produces delicious fruits, veggies and even nuts. Our host’s sister is also staying here to help with the transition. The sister has two daughters in college, a rattail, and a beautiful old house also in Galicia of which she showed me pictures. The sister helps with chores around the house. She helps the maid.
My mom told me that I would get along with her. After dinner yesterday her and I went to the service kitchen (a separate kitchen for the cooks, hidden from the guests) and chatted with the maid about herbs and plants and dissent. Today there was a very important meeting to settle finances. My mom, myself, and the sister were not to attend the meeting. I certainly had no interest.
The sister took us out to Madrid. We parked the car. Her and I began to speak about protests that had been occurring recently in Madrid. I described my experience at #occupywallstreet and the news and tweets I’ve been following about similar demonstrations and the movement at large. My mom commented that she’d like to go buy me a sweater. We came upon the plaza where there had been some massive demonstrations only a few weeks earlier (look it up on yuktube: Madrid protests ows?). She approached some punks and asked them some stuff. My mom commented that there were a lot of people in the plaza and even more down the street. The sister….. Ok… Her name is Amparo… Amparo reported to us: “es que se llevaron las demostraciones a una ocupa que ‘sta aquí cerca.” [They took the demonstration to a squat nearby]. So we went to El Hotel Madrid. The hotel had been abandoned years earlier and since has become a squat for dissenters. We entered the hotel. Jipis y roqueros were occupying the foyer conversing about chores and such to maintain the upkeep of the squat. I looked back at my mom. She was dressed with an elegant blouse, slacks, and a shawl, mostly greys and black. She was a little bit excited albeit out of her element……well out of her element. A smelly dude greeted us and gave us a tour of the whole building. Each floor he introduced us to fellow occupiers. They all seemed a bit confused as to what interest a group like us had in this venue. After an awkward silence after being introduced one girl said simply, “guay”.
We left soon after. Amparo had rolled a cigarette and wanted to smoke it outside. The hotel was located next to a fashion outlet with the name, “Lefties”.
After walking around more neighborhoods forbidden to “las gente de sociedad” we returned home to high security and a good dinner, served by the sister and the maid. After dinner I drank aguardiente de cafe hecho en la casa and conversed some with Amparo and my mom. We had spared the details of our outing to they others.
Some pikchers:
We came to the north of Spain -Asturias – to see where my family was from before Cuba. My great great grandfather was born in Asturias in a parish named Cardava. We found the house by some instructions given to my mum several years ago by an old Cuban lady fearing the end of her life approaching. We also had an old photo. The principal landmark was the “El Gaitero” factory -mass producers of cheap Spanish cider.
We were to look for a house that was across the street. We didn’t see any houses across the street. As we were driving back to the center of town I noticed a small road adjacent to the cider factory that called my attention.
As we drove up that road I recognized the house immediately from the photo that we had. We parked and moseyed. An old lady greeted us from the balcony of the house. We told her why we were there. She sent her niece down to tell us the history of the property. It had been renovated and converted to a small hostel.
She motioned over to the plaque that commemorated the birth of my ancestor.
A painting of the old house:
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The structure to the right is called an ‘orrio’. It is used to protect the harvest from rats and such.
Later on we found a street in the town that was named after him.
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Is it good? Is it bad?
These are simple questions.
It is real.
