Whats on my mind? Whats on my senses, you mean. I have enough trouble getting out of my mind and into the world, but being here helps. It is 11.30 at night, and I can hear the river Gauro at the bottom of our valley softly roaring in the darkness. Someone in the pueblo is letting off rockets. Their flash illuminates the great shadowy heights of Pico de Vilo and el Torcal, the two mountains that rise up to the north on the other side of the valley. Then about seconds later you hear the bang of the rocket, and about 3 seconds after that the bang is diffused around the sides of the mountains, rolling in a raspy growl off the rocky escarpments. Above, the sky is peopled with the gods and heroes which the stars represent, reminding me of how Sancho Panza was able to tell Quixote the exact time of the year, week, day and hour by looking up and deducing it all from the position of the constellations. He was an unlettered servant, but any unlettered servant of the 17th century could have done the same, making you realise that the relationship between humankind and the heavens in that era was cosy, predictable, and divine. Earlier this afternoon we went to an arroz, which is to say a rice feastlet, at the cortijo of a very nice Dutch/Belgian couple who do horses, beautiful horses, the kind that are patient in the heat, and glossy, and who come up to you if you just wait by them, and talk to you. They were giving this arroz in the dusty surroundings of their enchanting old house. There were Spanish there from our pueblo, and they let it be known that our Scottie dogs, who are an exotic rarity so far south as this, have assumed celebrity status; there were Belgians, Dutch, a few English, and a lot of locals. We collected food from a great paella dish sitting on a fire in a pit in the ground, and tinto de verano (red wine and lemonade) from a guy who spoke Andaluz in a voice like a parakeets, who mixed the tinto de verano in a plastic bottle decapitated from the shoulders up, and we sat on straw bales. There was an exotic French rideress from Gaucin, the famous gay colony above Sotogrande, and some adorable children and many dogs with smiling faces. After the arroz, a couple of guys sat under a great olive tree. One of the guys was from Los Marines, a tiny village nearby, and the other was from Malaga, a professor of flamenco guitar at Malaga University. We gathered round in a circle, and the guy from LosMarines sang cante jondo songs about nightingales in the fields, love passion, and sitting alone, while the guitar player accompanied him in the ancient forms and rhythms of the classical dances of soleares, seguidilla, malaguena, and taranta. I know this because I spent a lot of time between the ages of 14 and 25 listening to this stuff, before studying it with the great Paco Pena, who remains a chum. But there: to sit beneath a great olive tree, listening to this timeless song, with the breeze in the olive leaves, and the horses standing by, and the sun bathing us all with its heat, well, does it get better than this? I have been writing a lot today and my fingers are weary, and my back achy, and my mind, which is where we began, is heavy for sleep. Night night everyone. By the way, last night I dreamt that Patrick Stewart had gone into musicals. I dont think Ive ever heard him sing, but he was doing so in my dream, in a rather distinctive sung version of his speaking voice. I emailed him and asked him if there was any truth in this dream. I will let you know his answer, so long as its not a secret.
Posted on: Sat, 24 May 2014 21:52:33 +0000
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