Spain 01

20090507. Santander, Spain. Hostel Cabo Mayor.

The auto-focus misses and grabs the cheap, mass-produced metal lamp behind her. She is blurry and dark, almost a silhouette, but her eyes still show. They're tired from travel and a mystery fever. A grumble comes from a small fridge that looks like it could also use a rest, to dream of electric sheep.

20090509. Gijon, Spain. Hotel Castilla.

The small details that I concentrated extra hard to remember, for the purpose of writing down so I wouldn't forget them, have been forgotten.

Cheap champagne + stretch limo with sunroof + teens = much shouting and waving;

this is a universal truth and as such is unforgettable. She washes smalls in the bath whilst humming as I write.

Dramatic mountains tearing up from sea level remind me of something prehistoric. My genes are pulled back in time by some hidden memory of wild forests and awesome valleys where birds of prey are pinned upon the blue sky. I imagine what they see; trees stretching up to grab a hold of them, sparkles of sun reflecting from a thin river and the curve of the Earth clinging to the horizon. A strange wave of fear ripples through me. This is all too new, too different, too exotic, too much information to comprehend. I need to look away from the bus's window. I look over the seats at the head-tops and wonder if they see what I see. One row in front a guy masturbates silently, his head turning from side to side. When he finishes he wipes his hand on the curtain leaving a darkness that will dry white. I aim the air-blower towards him as a precaution against the sweet salt smell that will inevitably arise. It helps little.

20090511. Gijon, on a marble block 'Cantos Los Dies Fuxios' by Adolfo Manzano, on a cliff top.

The salt of the Cantabrico Sea is on my skin like a tan. Less sweaty and offensive than the bus. It fills me with images of Ishmael and hawsers, Kesey's wave poetry and pirate's coves. Again I'm pulled back in time, aeons of waves have crashed ashore here, each one individual yet the same as countless others. Recently a friend told me he is going to try and write one piece a week and I thought it would be a great idea to do the same. Forcing words has never been easy, I need to let them come to me, so it will be a good exercise. Now I write everyday and it's hard. It shouldn't be. Words are surrounding me at every moment, I just need to choose which ones to commit to paper. That is the hard part. There are too many words to choose from.
She also sits writing on a marble block, surrounded by words. I wonder which ones she picks...

20090511. Gijon, Hotel Castilla.

The more we are lost the more we get to know the city. Landmarks become recognised from more than one angle and distances become real, as opposed to being an abstract inch or two on a map. Green areas become trees and grass and old people sitting in the shade playing bingo and cards and small dogs running after balls. Grey areas become factories with concrete chimneys and silver pipes and fences and workers in overalls. And the large blue becomes an immense heaving life of its own, both gentle and rough, people's souls naturally gravitate towards it and become lost among the murky depths. The sea eats cliffs and slowly spits them back out as beaches...

Endless cafés and bars line the streets inviting us in for coffee and beer, escape the heat, rest your feet, something to eat, forget the outside become lost in music from your memories where once cheesy lyrics suddenly become poignant, double-edged, as waves of cigarette and sweet cigar-smoke rolls over your head. A woman of beyond middle-age sits at the dark end of the bar dressed for a 20s Chicago drinking den. She purposefully sucks on her cigarette consciously trying to look unselfconscious, exhales into the barman's face, flicks her eyes at me, she knows she's been caught, barman doesn't notice as he's glued to the football above and behind her. Barcelona and another Spanish team chase the bladder as we fill ours. A business trio come in and take control of the other bar end, by the door, they are silhouetted and haloed like angels. Newspapers are spread out as drinks are ordered. The older man turns straight to the market section, running a neat nail down some stock lists. She takes the entertainment section leaving the other man with the normal news, he isn't satisfied, the football finds him so he feigns interest in that instead. They seem a couple, her hand lingers on his arm, they could have been pulled from a business magazine. In their nondescript, stylish yet safe clothes they project success and convertible cars. She's not used to being ignored and after tapping the older man's shoulder four times she gives up and places his drink next to him, where he still does not see it. The drink is too near the other man's elbow, he moves it, the older man notices, comes out of his stock coma, picks up his drink and nods thanks to the other man. She reddens. This timeless Hell seems innocent but even the sticky floor impedes your exit. Sunlight is kept at bay with tinted windows and cigarette fog. Fall in, fall in and never claw your way out, many heads have dropped here and landed in the barley fields to rot. A personal Hell approved and encouraged by all as only the sufferer suffers. Crushed tissues and saliva-soaked cigarette-ends litter the floor buried in deserted hopes and vague dreams of happiness by another's hand only disappointment grows in this barren soil flowering into hatred and loneliness that block out the sun starving the mind even more falling deeper into the bottomless crevasse no rope is long enough for rescue from internal devils that spew forth waves of daemons that battle with the shape-shifting reality it's better to sit in a time portal that does not travel to the future or the past but sits in its own zone forever drowning drowning drowning no air lungs closing crushing gasping aching screaming driving rhythm of hate and loathing leads to sheepless sleep in abandoned cities where the only guide to salvation is the battered abused broken and shattered self. Neat nails run down stock lists.
We leave the bar and return to the bright street where teens boldly tear through the traffic on noisy, wobbly scooters, helmets on elbows. I wonder if it's better to face a mental or physical danger. Old people nod away the day on benches facing children's play parks. The streets flow with piss. Burned tin foil on a plastic bottle sitting on a filthy cracked sink. Two thin older men talk animatedly at a pavement table outside a bar, touching their faces continually. Stroking, caressing, scratching. Their darting eyes follow a young girl who runs past, pulling along a small Yorkshire terrier, her short pink skirt dances on her thighs. Her matching little pink backpack is carried by her father who strides after her. Palm trees and ornate, black metal lampposts compete for air-space as pigeons and finches compete for crumbs in their shade. We return to the Hotel tired from daytime beer.