We wandered lost, though this was inevitable in the Gypsy quarter of Grana'. Rorian beside me had already sunk into a tinto verano giddiness, half amused, half-afraid at the shadow play slicing unexpected corners into alleyways that turned us around in defeat. He kept clinging onto my shoulder asking for more jamon serrano, as if this would straighten the streets out and lead us towards the plaza where fresh pulpo gallego awaited us on steaming butter&salt soaked dishes. I began to wonder if being lost was an ordinary occurrence in my head, and what events had been pieced together to lead us into this darkened situation. Surely I had never been physically lost before? Surely the lump of school-eraser sized hash bumping in my jeans pocket had come from somewhere? I stumbled and held onto a flower pot that dangled from the outside roof of a residence in the cave quarter, wondering how the lit cigarette full of "chocolate" had gotten into my hands, and why Rorian kept mumbling about pigs he couldn't eat. I began to sift pesetas in my hash filled hand, mashing metal and drug, creating a song while I did so, lifting the fog far enough in my inner mind to see the beginning of our day...
the bull roars,
but the croooooowd…
lunges over barriers –
sword and flesh swing,
horns covered in sand –
eyes demon-red
innocent gloom.
the bull roars
stomps and pounds
jarras crack and spill,
to the sand.
the bull has collapsed,
the bull has fallen
its knees have buckled.
but outside the blood is booooooooiling! ending in a broken high note, my song lurched forward with my body, into shutters half-open to mysteries inside, cracking old wood with my fall, the warmth of blood colored like Rioja wine filling my mouth.
"I am mesmerized by the sound of charcoal sizzling on that aluminum foil," I murmured, hours before, to my best friend who stared apprehensively at the ball of flavored tobacco mixed with hash. "It calms me down, it stops the whirring in my head from words crowding inside my mind, impatient hands on horns, furious faces beet red...."
Clak, clak, tikka tikka clak clak! went the castanuelas, sounds smoothly wrapped around the smoke drifting up from our hookah, gypsy flamenco dancer whirling inches away from our low table. Her colors reminded me of a monarch butterfly in a controlled spin, a painter's hand of yellows, oranges and blacks deftly wiping the palette of air in front of me with sound and hues of a tradition old as the cave we sat in. "I don't really know where we are anymore," I said, while my hand stood poised above the charcoal, gleaming glowing embers crumbling hour after hour to a fine ash. "You are where you need to be," Rorian replied, now holding a calf-skin bag of wine over his mouth and squirting fresh Sangre de Toro into his mouth. I rolled my eyes in response, taking my eyes off the woman's hands rolling and twisting for only a moment to look over at him and see if he were serious. The sweat of the dancer and thrum of the man's guitar were beginning to fill the air, layer after layer of rich velvety warmth that made the small cave door seem smaller and smaller than ever. I began to sink happily to the voice of the guitarist, smooth chunks of gravel bouncing against each other and skipped into a lake's smooth surface.
The next morning all that was in my pocket were a few pesetas and a half-empty lighter. Rorian was nowhere in sight and my mouth carried the mineral sour taste of my own blood far back into my throat.
the bull roars,
but the croooooowd…
lunges over barriers –
sword and flesh swing,
horns covered in sand –
eyes demon-red
innocent gloom.
the bull roars
stomps and pounds
jarras crack and spill,
to the sand.
the bull has collapsed,
the bull has fallen
its knees have buckled.
but outside the blood is booooooooiling! ending in a broken high note, my song lurched forward with my body, into shutters half-open to mysteries inside, cracking old wood with my fall, the warmth of blood colored like Rioja wine filling my mouth.
"I am mesmerized by the sound of charcoal sizzling on that aluminum foil," I murmured, hours before, to my best friend who stared apprehensively at the ball of flavored tobacco mixed with hash. "It calms me down, it stops the whirring in my head from words crowding inside my mind, impatient hands on horns, furious faces beet red...."
Clak, clak, tikka tikka clak clak! went the castanuelas, sounds smoothly wrapped around the smoke drifting up from our hookah, gypsy flamenco dancer whirling inches away from our low table. Her colors reminded me of a monarch butterfly in a controlled spin, a painter's hand of yellows, oranges and blacks deftly wiping the palette of air in front of me with sound and hues of a tradition old as the cave we sat in. "I don't really know where we are anymore," I said, while my hand stood poised above the charcoal, gleaming glowing embers crumbling hour after hour to a fine ash. "You are where you need to be," Rorian replied, now holding a calf-skin bag of wine over his mouth and squirting fresh Sangre de Toro into his mouth. I rolled my eyes in response, taking my eyes off the woman's hands rolling and twisting for only a moment to look over at him and see if he were serious. The sweat of the dancer and thrum of the man's guitar were beginning to fill the air, layer after layer of rich velvety warmth that made the small cave door seem smaller and smaller than ever. I began to sink happily to the voice of the guitarist, smooth chunks of gravel bouncing against each other and skipped into a lake's smooth surface.
The next morning all that was in my pocket were a few pesetas and a half-empty lighter. Rorian was nowhere in sight and my mouth carried the mineral sour taste of my own blood far back into my throat.
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