Introspection
Finally I surrender, love.
The secrets of my desires I will no more withhold.
Spread your dark wings and blow your tempests,
yield up your fires and curses,
and I will be silent
except to pray alone in the night
to your fury.
You may have it all now;
all I can bring out of me is yours.
I will part with everything
if only I might rest in amazement
as you blast me open with your viciousness,
render all that denies me your deep space and stark insanity.
Tuesday, December 04, 2012
Thursday, November 08, 2012
Empty Rhetoric
"These arguments we have are a mark of our
liberty. We can never forget that as we speak people in distant nations
are risking their lives right now just for a chance to argue about the
issues that matter, the chance to cast their ballots like we did today."
- Barak Obama
Oh, fantastic. We have free speech in this country. We can argue about which of the two representatives of Goldman Sachs and Haliburton is the most handsome and enunciates his words better. And like virtually every other nation in the world, we can go through a sham election in which the same policies are put in different wrapping paper and re-sold to us. But we can never forget, Mr. Obama, that as we speak people right here at home, not just in "distant nations", are fighting for the chance to argue about the issues that matter--and they're being stymied by your administration. I'm talking about the same whistle-blowers whose bravery you praised in 2008 but have piteously hunted down and imprisoned and tortured in the four years since then. I'm talking about the fact that your administration has used the notorious Espionage Act more times than all previous presidents COMBINED, more than Bush/Cheney and the paranoid Nixon administration or Red-Scared Reagan. I'm talking about the fact that your administration attempted to use the National Defense Authorization Act to detain American citizens indefinitely, without trial, just for being SUSPECTED of having ties to Al Qaeda. And when your abusive practices were ruled unconstitutional, you promptly put my tax dollars to work in trying to overturn the ruling. I'm talking about the fact that when thousands of Occupiers tried to voice their dissent, tried to "argue about the issues that matter" in locations paid for by their tax dollars and where they could actually be heard for a change, you called in the dogs and had them forcefully relocated to far off fields or hidden back rooms or living room sofas where no one could hear them and their voices would be effectively silenced. I'm talking about the fact that you charged John Kiriakou with treason for leaking information about officials involved in illegal waterboarding in Guantanamo and at the same time haven't bothered to prosecute a single person who engaged in or authorized the illegal practice in the first place. I'm talking about the consistent message your administration has sent out that "respect for the law" applies only to those people who are victimized by it.
I could go on and on here, but my point is simple: Obama has been re-elected President, and the country remains the same enemy of freedom and equality it has always been.
Oh, fantastic. We have free speech in this country. We can argue about which of the two representatives of Goldman Sachs and Haliburton is the most handsome and enunciates his words better. And like virtually every other nation in the world, we can go through a sham election in which the same policies are put in different wrapping paper and re-sold to us. But we can never forget, Mr. Obama, that as we speak people right here at home, not just in "distant nations", are fighting for the chance to argue about the issues that matter--and they're being stymied by your administration. I'm talking about the same whistle-blowers whose bravery you praised in 2008 but have piteously hunted down and imprisoned and tortured in the four years since then. I'm talking about the fact that your administration has used the notorious Espionage Act more times than all previous presidents COMBINED, more than Bush/Cheney and the paranoid Nixon administration or Red-Scared Reagan. I'm talking about the fact that your administration attempted to use the National Defense Authorization Act to detain American citizens indefinitely, without trial, just for being SUSPECTED of having ties to Al Qaeda. And when your abusive practices were ruled unconstitutional, you promptly put my tax dollars to work in trying to overturn the ruling. I'm talking about the fact that when thousands of Occupiers tried to voice their dissent, tried to "argue about the issues that matter" in locations paid for by their tax dollars and where they could actually be heard for a change, you called in the dogs and had them forcefully relocated to far off fields or hidden back rooms or living room sofas where no one could hear them and their voices would be effectively silenced. I'm talking about the fact that you charged John Kiriakou with treason for leaking information about officials involved in illegal waterboarding in Guantanamo and at the same time haven't bothered to prosecute a single person who engaged in or authorized the illegal practice in the first place. I'm talking about the consistent message your administration has sent out that "respect for the law" applies only to those people who are victimized by it.
I could go on and on here, but my point is simple: Obama has been re-elected President, and the country remains the same enemy of freedom and equality it has always been.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
A Religious Poem
I might want to believe in you, Lord
But in my struggle to know you, I become your prevention:
I want love and the impossibility of love.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Paris, Barcelona, Bilbao, Granada, Lisbon, etc.
The Egyptian Obelisk. It sits at the end of the Jardin de Tullieres (behind the Louvre and leading to the Champs d'Elysees). It was one of the first things we saw on this trip, during a walking tour of the city, and it stands out for me as an emblem of my experience of Paris.
For one thing, it's pleasant to look at. It's gold leafed at the top, it's tall and well-constructed. And it's old--three thousand three hundred years old, to be more exact--the oldest edifice in the city. At the same time, it would be both more and less impressive in its original environment, in Egypt marking the entrance to the Luxor temple. But there it would not stand out as it does in La Place de La Concorde. It's one of thousands of pleasant and interesting things to look at here in Paris--and its splendor hides more than it shows.
It doesn't say anything about it being stolen by Napolean. It doesn't say that Egypt asked to have it back every year for over ninety years and was ignored. Nor does it say anything about what used to be in its place--the guillotine--or the streets that bled for ten years after the revolution. Like so much of Paris, its beautiful surface conceals more than a few layers of ugliness.
Parisians always seem friendly. They smile and act like they're listening with concern. I haven't witnessed any impatience with my inability to speak French, as I expected. No one has tried to rob or pick-pocket us (to my knowledge). There's a certain humility both in the sound of the language and the non-verbal gesturing. And of course it's liberal here--full of well-read, cultured, enemies of intolerance. As already noted, Paris is a beautiful city to look at, the people as well as the buildings and landmarks. On the surface.
But behind all that is something else--confusion, muck, and corruption. The shit and urine under some of the bridges, the gypsy camp grounds, the racism, the hypocrisy, the sometimes excessive French rudeness, the elitism.... At the quarterfinals of the European Cup, watching on an outdoor big screen next to the Eiffel Tower, a group of teenage boys decided they wanted to stand, even though there were rows of people sitting behind them. Another group decided to throw some fireworks, and the nearly always friendly police, rather than trying to protect the crowd from the potential hazards of the fireworks, decided to tear-gas the whole area. My eyes are still burning. It seems like the whole world cheats the Metro system, justifiably so considering the costs, and it seemed like the city did little to stop it until we saw a man dressed like a wanna-be James Dean, a plain-clothed patrol officer, handing out sixty dollar citations to tourists who had made honest mistakes and to immigrants trying to save whatever money they could. Behind the fashionable clothes, Parisians are ugly. Some of the ugliness, though, is in plain sight. Nobody talks about the commercialization of Paris, its cartoonish quality. But it's there. It's like a Disneyland for adults, only you're meant to know that Disneyland is a fantasy.The Champs d'Elysees is easily one of the least interesting streets I've ever seen. No character whatsoever. A big outdoor shopping mall for the rich. Big fucking deal. And the prices in the rest of Paris aren't that much better. The whole city is one big tourist trap, designed to make you feel like you're participating in something important when you're playing tourist, which the locals do as much as the out-of-towners. The Eiffel tower is a horror to look at. Sure, if you put enough colorful lights on something it looks nice--it's flashy and catches your attention, but it's still ugly. And if you want proof of how easily human tastes can be manufactured, look at the lines of people waiting to pay to go to the top of the tower. And the whole city is full of people with the same kinds of tacky tastes, tourist tastes, a taste for the ugly.
No doubt about it, Paris is an ugly city, its history as well as its present artificial reincarnation. But you've got to take a good look at the ugliness to really appreciate it. I could go on and on about the ugly side of Paris and tell you why I hate it so much, except for the fact that it would misrepresent my feelings if I did. Fact is, while I hate almost everything about Paris, I don't hate Paris. Yes, it's ugly. Yes, it's a big phony facade with no real charm whatsoever. But I still like it. I want to come back. It's like a beautiful woman that gets away with being the world's biggest bitch because she's so freaking hot. But there's another side to her, too. Once you look passed the hot body and the clever make-up application and so on--once you see her for the bitch that she really is, she starts to grow on you and reveals yet another side.
Our last night in Paris, we returned to the Jardin de Tullieres and saw again the obelisk we had seen on our first day there. I thought about how children years after the revolution used to push on the square cobblestones and squeeze up the blood from the still moist soil. I thought of all the violence and mis-guided over-zealous passions of the French Revolution. But I also thought about the glories of the French Commune, of Paul Eluard and Baudrillard and Christine de Pizan and Proust and Benjamin and Van Gogh and Picasso. The ugliness of Paris is hidden but it too hides something, yet another kind of ugliness at times and sometimes a failed expression pointing at something genuinely beautiful off on the horizon and sometimes something beautiful in its own right. But even then you're not seeing the real Paris, for beauty, like Rilke tells us, is the last veil that uncovers the horrible. And Paris is a city of veils.
Barcelona
We spent the first week at the apartment of a friend of Jesusa's, with a couple from Barranquilla Colombia, in a small quiet little town called St. Jean Despi. Unlike in Paris, though, being outside the city wasn't a problem. We had to walk one block to the train station and, twenty minutes later, were in the city center without having to change lines and for a price of about seventy five cents. The public transportation isn't just cheaper in Barcelona than in Paris or Istanbul, it's better. After a week, we moved to our own apartment, a spacious place on the outer margins of the city but equally accessible to the city center with the metro.
The first day, we took a tour of the old city, el barrio Gottico, and learned about the interesting Catalan history, which explains why many Barcelonans think of themselves, even today, as Catalans rather than Spaniards. The Iglesia de Maria del Mar, with its charred ceilings and echoes of classical music, was a special treat. Two days later, we took the Gaudi walking tour and visited La Pedrera, Casa Vicens, Casa Battlo, and the Sagrada Familia, the interior of which we saw the following day. It's pretty amazing, meant to strike you as if you were entering a grove of immense pine trees as you enter. The exterior, though, at least the side depicting Christ's birth, is even more impressive, especially the exquisite amount of detail. It made me think of the paintings of Casper David Friedrich.
In subsequent days, we visitied Parque Guell, the beach (four different ones), La Sagrada Corazon, a roman church (the name of which I've forgotten), the Picasso Museum, the Archeological Museum, etc. On the day we visited the cathedral, we got to see a Sardana dance presentation put on by the locals, part of which is erecting human towers as high as six or seven stories.
My favorite thing about Barcelona, about travel in general for that matter, is meeting the locals: Jesusa's friends, the parents of the woman whose apartment we rented, the friends of Jesusa's friends, and various waiters and other strangers. Nothing like a night of conversation with good company and a few pints of wine or Sangria.
Silent Cinema
Saw a Buster Keaton silent film with live musical accompaniment. It was shown on a big screen outside the walls of the Mondruit Castle.
Begur
A beach town about three hours from Barcelona. We stayed in a hotel on the Sa Riera beach, but we spent a lot of time on the next beach to the North, Raco (I think). We had to pass through the nude beach to get there. Beautiful place, especially at night (Begur, I mean. The nude beach is better by day).
Montserrat
It's a monastery at the top of a mountain, where, as legend has it, music was heard from the nearby Sacred Cave and, when the locals went to investigate, they discovered the statue of the Black Virgin. We waited in line with the other pilgrims to see the statue, which wasn't at all worth the long wait. The Basilica, though, is nice. New Roman outside and Baroque inside. What really made the trip worthwhile, though, was the natural scenery, the giant rocks that overlook the monastery and the terrific views. We took a short hike and saw a mountain goat along the way. Afterwards, we went back to the Basilica and listened to the men's choir for awhile. Then we met up with a friend of Jesusa's at a nearby pueblo for dinner and drinks. Nice day.
Bilbao
We saw the famous Frank Gehry designed Guggenheim and visited three other museums. The history and culture here is a bit mysterious. Though Franco tried hard to wipe out the indigenous language, it lives on, at least as a second language, for many of the Basque people. It's the oldest living European language and has roots that date back possibly to the pre-neolithic. The culture here is somewhat unique, as well. Due to the mountainous geography (easy to defend and isolated), none of the major European or Arabian empires ever gained firm control here and the native Voscan culture has been somewhat preserved. The people are as friendly here as in other parts of Spain, but less Westernized, a bit rougher. The women don't dress as fashionably or as femininely, and the working class seems both more respected and less idealized than in other places. The food is every bit as good as advertised, but not as expensive as we thought it would be. Definitely worth a return trip!
Thoughts on indigenous Spanish culture, etc.
We hate what we fear, but what we fear most, we disdain. Knowing we can't bear the terror, we expel it completely from our minds and bodies and even beyond, where we can't come into contact with it. Afraid to believe ourselves capable or murder, we put the murderer out of sight, prohibit cameras from filming his execution, and hide the corpse from public view. Trying not to remember those two or three homoerotic dreams, we turn our heads in disgust at the sight of two men kissing.
Following dictator protocol, Franco tried to convince the world and his subjects that there was only one Spain. No Catalan culture, no Moorish influence, no Basques. In Ecuador, where one of every three persons is indigenous, many try to forget their native language, they buy products to lighten their skin, trying to disappear the way the other two thirds of the country desires. In the US no group hates the Native Americans. But more than a few wish they would stop whining about the past, would just stay on their ever-shrinking reservations and be happy or lose their heritage and become part of the modern world. No group in the world is more ignored, more hidden and thereby more despised, than the indigenous, in whatever country. And perhaps there is no more frightening idea than that the indigenous know something the rest of the world doesn't, that, in the end, the world belongs to them.
Granada
Great place, but not in August, not with the heat. The Alhambra was amazing, and I loved the fact that here they do Tapas the way it was meant to be done: you order a drink, you get a tapa; you don't pay twice. And the tapas are both delicious and substantial here, often a plate-full. Saw a really nice Flamenco show here in a club resembling a cave.
Poetry
Traveling, especially when I'm near a beach or natural scenery, always inspires me to write poetry. I've written several poems. Here's one:
What if I still had
every vestige of the past
both clear and deep within me
that still there were room
for each leaf of last year's bloom
and all the sights and sounds my life's brought in
and now I have forgotten?
Oh, how easily my soul would rend and scatter in today's morning breeze.
Lisbon
Not a lot to see for toursim, necessarily, but a really nice city to visit (and perhaps for living). The people here are much more Latin than Spaniards, in the sense of being humbler and more traditional in their tastes, but they're also heavily European, almost Parisian with their downcast, serious faces and their love of high culture. They're especially fond of their writers here, which suits me well. Like in Paris, there is a ton of racial diversity, but inter-racial mixing seems to be more common and better accepted here. They're also, like Parisians, fond of sitting for hours in their favorite cafe, only it isn't a cafe; here it's a pasteleria, similar to a Parisian cafe in almost every sense except that it's a lot cheaper and the people dress and behave more casually, with less posing, and interact more. They also love their sweets here, which is great but not so good for my health or will-power. The climate isn't bad, either. It's hot, but not Granada hot. And the beaches aren't too hard to get to and they're clean. To be honest, I haven't found anything I dislike about this city.
We saw an old monastery, the main cathedral, and an old tower by the sea. The have some different and delicious traditional drinks here: something called ginjinha, a liquor made from cherry-like ginja berries fermented in brandy; a green wine named because it's made from new grapes (not because it's green); and of course lots of port wine. I had a fair sampling of all of the above.
Heading back to Madrid to unwind for a few days before heading back to Denver to end the summer travels. Don't know if I'm ready for real life yet.
For one thing, it's pleasant to look at. It's gold leafed at the top, it's tall and well-constructed. And it's old--three thousand three hundred years old, to be more exact--the oldest edifice in the city. At the same time, it would be both more and less impressive in its original environment, in Egypt marking the entrance to the Luxor temple. But there it would not stand out as it does in La Place de La Concorde. It's one of thousands of pleasant and interesting things to look at here in Paris--and its splendor hides more than it shows.
It doesn't say anything about it being stolen by Napolean. It doesn't say that Egypt asked to have it back every year for over ninety years and was ignored. Nor does it say anything about what used to be in its place--the guillotine--or the streets that bled for ten years after the revolution. Like so much of Paris, its beautiful surface conceals more than a few layers of ugliness.
Parisians always seem friendly. They smile and act like they're listening with concern. I haven't witnessed any impatience with my inability to speak French, as I expected. No one has tried to rob or pick-pocket us (to my knowledge). There's a certain humility both in the sound of the language and the non-verbal gesturing. And of course it's liberal here--full of well-read, cultured, enemies of intolerance. As already noted, Paris is a beautiful city to look at, the people as well as the buildings and landmarks. On the surface.
But behind all that is something else--confusion, muck, and corruption. The shit and urine under some of the bridges, the gypsy camp grounds, the racism, the hypocrisy, the sometimes excessive French rudeness, the elitism.... At the quarterfinals of the European Cup, watching on an outdoor big screen next to the Eiffel Tower, a group of teenage boys decided they wanted to stand, even though there were rows of people sitting behind them. Another group decided to throw some fireworks, and the nearly always friendly police, rather than trying to protect the crowd from the potential hazards of the fireworks, decided to tear-gas the whole area. My eyes are still burning. It seems like the whole world cheats the Metro system, justifiably so considering the costs, and it seemed like the city did little to stop it until we saw a man dressed like a wanna-be James Dean, a plain-clothed patrol officer, handing out sixty dollar citations to tourists who had made honest mistakes and to immigrants trying to save whatever money they could. Behind the fashionable clothes, Parisians are ugly. Some of the ugliness, though, is in plain sight. Nobody talks about the commercialization of Paris, its cartoonish quality. But it's there. It's like a Disneyland for adults, only you're meant to know that Disneyland is a fantasy.The Champs d'Elysees is easily one of the least interesting streets I've ever seen. No character whatsoever. A big outdoor shopping mall for the rich. Big fucking deal. And the prices in the rest of Paris aren't that much better. The whole city is one big tourist trap, designed to make you feel like you're participating in something important when you're playing tourist, which the locals do as much as the out-of-towners. The Eiffel tower is a horror to look at. Sure, if you put enough colorful lights on something it looks nice--it's flashy and catches your attention, but it's still ugly. And if you want proof of how easily human tastes can be manufactured, look at the lines of people waiting to pay to go to the top of the tower. And the whole city is full of people with the same kinds of tacky tastes, tourist tastes, a taste for the ugly.
No doubt about it, Paris is an ugly city, its history as well as its present artificial reincarnation. But you've got to take a good look at the ugliness to really appreciate it. I could go on and on about the ugly side of Paris and tell you why I hate it so much, except for the fact that it would misrepresent my feelings if I did. Fact is, while I hate almost everything about Paris, I don't hate Paris. Yes, it's ugly. Yes, it's a big phony facade with no real charm whatsoever. But I still like it. I want to come back. It's like a beautiful woman that gets away with being the world's biggest bitch because she's so freaking hot. But there's another side to her, too. Once you look passed the hot body and the clever make-up application and so on--once you see her for the bitch that she really is, she starts to grow on you and reveals yet another side.
Our last night in Paris, we returned to the Jardin de Tullieres and saw again the obelisk we had seen on our first day there. I thought about how children years after the revolution used to push on the square cobblestones and squeeze up the blood from the still moist soil. I thought of all the violence and mis-guided over-zealous passions of the French Revolution. But I also thought about the glories of the French Commune, of Paul Eluard and Baudrillard and Christine de Pizan and Proust and Benjamin and Van Gogh and Picasso. The ugliness of Paris is hidden but it too hides something, yet another kind of ugliness at times and sometimes a failed expression pointing at something genuinely beautiful off on the horizon and sometimes something beautiful in its own right. But even then you're not seeing the real Paris, for beauty, like Rilke tells us, is the last veil that uncovers the horrible. And Paris is a city of veils.
Barcelona
We spent the first week at the apartment of a friend of Jesusa's, with a couple from Barranquilla Colombia, in a small quiet little town called St. Jean Despi. Unlike in Paris, though, being outside the city wasn't a problem. We had to walk one block to the train station and, twenty minutes later, were in the city center without having to change lines and for a price of about seventy five cents. The public transportation isn't just cheaper in Barcelona than in Paris or Istanbul, it's better. After a week, we moved to our own apartment, a spacious place on the outer margins of the city but equally accessible to the city center with the metro.
The first day, we took a tour of the old city, el barrio Gottico, and learned about the interesting Catalan history, which explains why many Barcelonans think of themselves, even today, as Catalans rather than Spaniards. The Iglesia de Maria del Mar, with its charred ceilings and echoes of classical music, was a special treat. Two days later, we took the Gaudi walking tour and visited La Pedrera, Casa Vicens, Casa Battlo, and the Sagrada Familia, the interior of which we saw the following day. It's pretty amazing, meant to strike you as if you were entering a grove of immense pine trees as you enter. The exterior, though, at least the side depicting Christ's birth, is even more impressive, especially the exquisite amount of detail. It made me think of the paintings of Casper David Friedrich.
In subsequent days, we visitied Parque Guell, the beach (four different ones), La Sagrada Corazon, a roman church (the name of which I've forgotten), the Picasso Museum, the Archeological Museum, etc. On the day we visited the cathedral, we got to see a Sardana dance presentation put on by the locals, part of which is erecting human towers as high as six or seven stories.
My favorite thing about Barcelona, about travel in general for that matter, is meeting the locals: Jesusa's friends, the parents of the woman whose apartment we rented, the friends of Jesusa's friends, and various waiters and other strangers. Nothing like a night of conversation with good company and a few pints of wine or Sangria.
Silent Cinema
Saw a Buster Keaton silent film with live musical accompaniment. It was shown on a big screen outside the walls of the Mondruit Castle.
Begur
A beach town about three hours from Barcelona. We stayed in a hotel on the Sa Riera beach, but we spent a lot of time on the next beach to the North, Raco (I think). We had to pass through the nude beach to get there. Beautiful place, especially at night (Begur, I mean. The nude beach is better by day).
Montserrat
It's a monastery at the top of a mountain, where, as legend has it, music was heard from the nearby Sacred Cave and, when the locals went to investigate, they discovered the statue of the Black Virgin. We waited in line with the other pilgrims to see the statue, which wasn't at all worth the long wait. The Basilica, though, is nice. New Roman outside and Baroque inside. What really made the trip worthwhile, though, was the natural scenery, the giant rocks that overlook the monastery and the terrific views. We took a short hike and saw a mountain goat along the way. Afterwards, we went back to the Basilica and listened to the men's choir for awhile. Then we met up with a friend of Jesusa's at a nearby pueblo for dinner and drinks. Nice day.
Bilbao
We saw the famous Frank Gehry designed Guggenheim and visited three other museums. The history and culture here is a bit mysterious. Though Franco tried hard to wipe out the indigenous language, it lives on, at least as a second language, for many of the Basque people. It's the oldest living European language and has roots that date back possibly to the pre-neolithic. The culture here is somewhat unique, as well. Due to the mountainous geography (easy to defend and isolated), none of the major European or Arabian empires ever gained firm control here and the native Voscan culture has been somewhat preserved. The people are as friendly here as in other parts of Spain, but less Westernized, a bit rougher. The women don't dress as fashionably or as femininely, and the working class seems both more respected and less idealized than in other places. The food is every bit as good as advertised, but not as expensive as we thought it would be. Definitely worth a return trip!
Thoughts on indigenous Spanish culture, etc.
We hate what we fear, but what we fear most, we disdain. Knowing we can't bear the terror, we expel it completely from our minds and bodies and even beyond, where we can't come into contact with it. Afraid to believe ourselves capable or murder, we put the murderer out of sight, prohibit cameras from filming his execution, and hide the corpse from public view. Trying not to remember those two or three homoerotic dreams, we turn our heads in disgust at the sight of two men kissing.
Following dictator protocol, Franco tried to convince the world and his subjects that there was only one Spain. No Catalan culture, no Moorish influence, no Basques. In Ecuador, where one of every three persons is indigenous, many try to forget their native language, they buy products to lighten their skin, trying to disappear the way the other two thirds of the country desires. In the US no group hates the Native Americans. But more than a few wish they would stop whining about the past, would just stay on their ever-shrinking reservations and be happy or lose their heritage and become part of the modern world. No group in the world is more ignored, more hidden and thereby more despised, than the indigenous, in whatever country. And perhaps there is no more frightening idea than that the indigenous know something the rest of the world doesn't, that, in the end, the world belongs to them.
Granada
Great place, but not in August, not with the heat. The Alhambra was amazing, and I loved the fact that here they do Tapas the way it was meant to be done: you order a drink, you get a tapa; you don't pay twice. And the tapas are both delicious and substantial here, often a plate-full. Saw a really nice Flamenco show here in a club resembling a cave.
Poetry
Traveling, especially when I'm near a beach or natural scenery, always inspires me to write poetry. I've written several poems. Here's one:
What if I still had
every vestige of the past
both clear and deep within me
that still there were room
for each leaf of last year's bloom
and all the sights and sounds my life's brought in
and now I have forgotten?
Oh, how easily my soul would rend and scatter in today's morning breeze.
Lisbon
Not a lot to see for toursim, necessarily, but a really nice city to visit (and perhaps for living). The people here are much more Latin than Spaniards, in the sense of being humbler and more traditional in their tastes, but they're also heavily European, almost Parisian with their downcast, serious faces and their love of high culture. They're especially fond of their writers here, which suits me well. Like in Paris, there is a ton of racial diversity, but inter-racial mixing seems to be more common and better accepted here. They're also, like Parisians, fond of sitting for hours in their favorite cafe, only it isn't a cafe; here it's a pasteleria, similar to a Parisian cafe in almost every sense except that it's a lot cheaper and the people dress and behave more casually, with less posing, and interact more. They also love their sweets here, which is great but not so good for my health or will-power. The climate isn't bad, either. It's hot, but not Granada hot. And the beaches aren't too hard to get to and they're clean. To be honest, I haven't found anything I dislike about this city.
We saw an old monastery, the main cathedral, and an old tower by the sea. The have some different and delicious traditional drinks here: something called ginjinha, a liquor made from cherry-like ginja berries fermented in brandy; a green wine named because it's made from new grapes (not because it's green); and of course lots of port wine. I had a fair sampling of all of the above.
Heading back to Madrid to unwind for a few days before heading back to Denver to end the summer travels. Don't know if I'm ready for real life yet.
Thursday, July 05, 2012
Taksim Istanbul and Iznik
This is the trendier, much more expensive and touristy part of Istanbul. It's a great area for nightlife and shopping, but not too interesting beyond that. We're paying a lot more here, for a not so nice apartment and inferior food quality. It's still nothing compared to what we'll pay in Paris, though.
A few highlights:
Topkapi palace. A bit of a disappointment. The riches exhibited in the treasury were stunning--if you're into that sort of thing. And the relics--John the Babtist's severed arm, Mohammed's sword, a lock of Abraham's hair--might be interesting to gullible religious people--but I was there for the sense of history, of which there wasn't much. The library would have been a wonderfully pleasant place for an afternoon read, equally good for a siesta thereafter. And the bedroom, the bed in particular, would have been great for a good night's sleep or, due to its size, a wild orgy with your harem.
Fatih Mosque, the largest in Istanbul, where we lounged on the carpet for an hour or so and then wandered the area. We returned to Taksim and saw the Galata tower, where they wanted twelve Lira (six dollars) to take an elevator to the top. We decided that if we really wanted a good view, we'd take the elevator to the top of a nearby high-rise hotel or climb a neaby hill (one tourist thing I'll never get is the mania for paying large sums of money to climb or be taken to the top of something). We ended up doing neither and watched a Japanese drum concert at the base of the tower.
Pera Museum. They had an exhibition of Goya's prints. I think I like his prints better than his paintings, and I love the paintings, the latter one's anyway, the ones he wasn't paid for. He reminds me a little of a more modern Brughel, depicting everyday life as both trivial and fantastically mysterious at once. I was already aware of his talent for revealing the absurdity and tragedy of things, but the prints show a more concise satire than I've seen in the paintings. One print shows a donkey carrying a corpse and is titled "Curious Devotion". Below that is a man carrying a statue and is titled: "Even moreso".
The permanent exhibits were so so. Well worth the visit, though, for the Goya prints (and a few paintings, all portraits).
The Cisterns. Built in 1453 to hold the city's water. Mostly drained, it looks today like an underground cathedral (pics to come). Two pillars at the end are constructed with the remains of two roman statues of Medusa, the faces turned upside down to prevent gazers from turning to stone.
We attended a Spanish language couchsurfing event after that. There were around 60 people there. Big and active couchsurfing community here in Istanbul. This is our third couchsurfing event, all of them well-attended.
Chora Church. Arguably the best place in the world to see Byzantine art, especially of the so-called Byzantine Renaissance (the later period). Aside from straining our neck muscles gazing upward at the ceilings, it was pretty nice. The mosaics depicting the life of Mary, scenes from the Apocrypha, were particularly interesting, the only depictions of their kind. Like Hagia Sofia, it isn't much to look at from outside, but inside is quite stunning. The mosaics are fairly well-preserved, considering their age (10th to 12th century), and the frescos in the tomb room even moreso. The Byzantines didn't build their churches symmetrically, like the Catholics, giving their structures a more dynamic and natural appearance.
On the way there, I stopped to ask two hijab-clad women for directions. Both tilted their chins up high and ignored me. I'm guessing that for some Muslim women it isn't proper to talk to male strangers.
Archeology Museum. Excellent. Oldest stuff I've ever seen. They've got something from every early civilization you can think of, at least in Mesopotamia.
Boat tour. We took a self-guided ferry tour up the Bosphorus to the mouth of the Black Sea. At the end, there's a small fishing village, overlooked by the ruins of a castle. Beautiful. We saw a pack of dolphins, too. There's something exhilirating about seeing even a small speck of fin amid all that blue emptiness.
Iznik.
Formerly Nicaea, where the Nicene Creed originated. A wonderful, quiet little town about two hours from Istanbul. We had a hotel that overlooked the lake, where we spent a fair amount of time drinking sangria and watching the sunset. The people there were as friendly as they were in the first neighborhood we visited in Istanbul. Strangers stopped to invite us to tea, a vendor gave us a free watermelon just for asking about prices, and everyone seemed happy to give us directions.
One day we saw a young boy yelling at his three sisters. When they returned to where he was screaming, he punched the oldest, a girl of maybe thirteen, in the side.
Last days. We couchsurfed with another super friendly local named Daliver. He left us alone in his apartment for the night, took us out to dinner twice, drove us around the city, and took us the next morning to the airport. After all this, he apologized for not having time to show us more.
Sad to leave. I definitely hope to return.
A few highlights:
Topkapi palace. A bit of a disappointment. The riches exhibited in the treasury were stunning--if you're into that sort of thing. And the relics--John the Babtist's severed arm, Mohammed's sword, a lock of Abraham's hair--might be interesting to gullible religious people--but I was there for the sense of history, of which there wasn't much. The library would have been a wonderfully pleasant place for an afternoon read, equally good for a siesta thereafter. And the bedroom, the bed in particular, would have been great for a good night's sleep or, due to its size, a wild orgy with your harem.
Fatih Mosque, the largest in Istanbul, where we lounged on the carpet for an hour or so and then wandered the area. We returned to Taksim and saw the Galata tower, where they wanted twelve Lira (six dollars) to take an elevator to the top. We decided that if we really wanted a good view, we'd take the elevator to the top of a nearby high-rise hotel or climb a neaby hill (one tourist thing I'll never get is the mania for paying large sums of money to climb or be taken to the top of something). We ended up doing neither and watched a Japanese drum concert at the base of the tower.
Pera Museum. They had an exhibition of Goya's prints. I think I like his prints better than his paintings, and I love the paintings, the latter one's anyway, the ones he wasn't paid for. He reminds me a little of a more modern Brughel, depicting everyday life as both trivial and fantastically mysterious at once. I was already aware of his talent for revealing the absurdity and tragedy of things, but the prints show a more concise satire than I've seen in the paintings. One print shows a donkey carrying a corpse and is titled "Curious Devotion". Below that is a man carrying a statue and is titled: "Even moreso".
The permanent exhibits were so so. Well worth the visit, though, for the Goya prints (and a few paintings, all portraits).
The Cisterns. Built in 1453 to hold the city's water. Mostly drained, it looks today like an underground cathedral (pics to come). Two pillars at the end are constructed with the remains of two roman statues of Medusa, the faces turned upside down to prevent gazers from turning to stone.
We attended a Spanish language couchsurfing event after that. There were around 60 people there. Big and active couchsurfing community here in Istanbul. This is our third couchsurfing event, all of them well-attended.
Chora Church. Arguably the best place in the world to see Byzantine art, especially of the so-called Byzantine Renaissance (the later period). Aside from straining our neck muscles gazing upward at the ceilings, it was pretty nice. The mosaics depicting the life of Mary, scenes from the Apocrypha, were particularly interesting, the only depictions of their kind. Like Hagia Sofia, it isn't much to look at from outside, but inside is quite stunning. The mosaics are fairly well-preserved, considering their age (10th to 12th century), and the frescos in the tomb room even moreso. The Byzantines didn't build their churches symmetrically, like the Catholics, giving their structures a more dynamic and natural appearance.
On the way there, I stopped to ask two hijab-clad women for directions. Both tilted their chins up high and ignored me. I'm guessing that for some Muslim women it isn't proper to talk to male strangers.
Archeology Museum. Excellent. Oldest stuff I've ever seen. They've got something from every early civilization you can think of, at least in Mesopotamia.
Boat tour. We took a self-guided ferry tour up the Bosphorus to the mouth of the Black Sea. At the end, there's a small fishing village, overlooked by the ruins of a castle. Beautiful. We saw a pack of dolphins, too. There's something exhilirating about seeing even a small speck of fin amid all that blue emptiness.
Iznik.
Formerly Nicaea, where the Nicene Creed originated. A wonderful, quiet little town about two hours from Istanbul. We had a hotel that overlooked the lake, where we spent a fair amount of time drinking sangria and watching the sunset. The people there were as friendly as they were in the first neighborhood we visited in Istanbul. Strangers stopped to invite us to tea, a vendor gave us a free watermelon just for asking about prices, and everyone seemed happy to give us directions.
One day we saw a young boy yelling at his three sisters. When they returned to where he was screaming, he punched the oldest, a girl of maybe thirteen, in the side.
Last days. We couchsurfed with another super friendly local named Daliver. He left us alone in his apartment for the night, took us out to dinner twice, drove us around the city, and took us the next morning to the airport. After all this, he apologized for not having time to show us more.
Sad to leave. I definitely hope to return.
Sunday, June 03, 2012
Travels
Madrid
We spent most of our holiday vacation here, so there isn't much touristy stuff left for us to do. Mostly we just settled into our apartment and dealt with the jet lag (strangely, Jesusa, who has been living here for over seven months, is struggling with it almost as much as I am), falling asleep between 2 and 4 am (though we get in bed at 12) and sleeping until 11 or 12 the next day, when we wake for breakfast. After breakfast, I go out to my favorite cafe to do a little writing and reading over a cup of Americano and a sugary pastry. Then it's back to the apartment for a bit of not-at-all-earned R and R. At about 4:30, we head out for lunch. A long walk to some part of the city thereafter and then out for some tapeando (tapas + ing). We went out with some of Jesusa's Colombian friends one night, a group of Couchsurfers another, and, on my birthday, went to Carmen, a Flamenco show, and to a nice restaurant after. Lots of good wine and good food. I'll have more to say about the beauties of Flamenco when we get back to Spain.
Istanbul
Woken up by the call to prayer. It moves me every time I hear it, makes me suddenly solemn, regardless of what I'm doing.
We didn't do much the first day. Took a walk and had lunch. The people are unbelievably friendly. We're staying near the airport, well outside of the tourist zones, and maybe for that reason the people here still find us exotic. And maybe they wouldn't be so friendly if I weren't with an attractive Colombian woman. When Jesusa left her sunglasses at the place we had lunch, two men from the kitchen chased us down about five blocks away in order to return them. After a coffee and tea, a man gave us a ride home because it was raining and we weren't dressed for it. The next day, at dinner, we ordered two durum from a small shop. The man brought us the durum and then a yogurt drink and two teas that we hadn't asked for. When we got up to pay and leave, he refused to take our money, which he did twice more on subsequent visits. We eventually learned to leave one or two things on our plates. If we didn't, he would bring us more food. He doesn't speak a word of English, but his unassuming smile and pleasant demeanor, even more generous than his actions, is something I hope stays with me.
Today we went to the Blue Mosque, which was quite impressive. In the tourist zones, most people speak English, unlike where we're staying, and they're still friendly though not quite as genuine, motivated more by the "plata" perhaps, than the people in the non-touristy areas.
When we got back to our place, the call to prayer chant started up again. It happens six times a day: twice in the early morning, again around noon, mid-afternoon, sunset (which, in the Muslim calendar marks the beginning of the new day, our morning), and evening.
At the Blue Mosque, they gave us a free informational seminar about the mosque and Muslim culture. While there's plenty to despise about the Muslim religion--most especially the militant permutations that have occurred in response to Colonialism and Globalization--there's much still to find appealing about the culture, perhaps the lone remaining contrast to western consumer lifestyles.
Dreams
I'm about to enter a Buddhist monastery as a monk. I'm uncertain about it, but a friend convinces me that it's "natural" and I join. Within the monastery, we hear a beautiful sound coming from outside. We go out to investigate and find one of the priests showing a number of other student monks a blank wall and, in song, describing the sounds made by the images on the wall. My friend rushes passed the wall and into the forest. I follow. I'm made to understand that the priest was playing a trick on everyone, reminding them that the finger that points to the moon should not be confused with the moon. The sound comes from the forest, not from the images or non-images on the wall or from the priest's singing.
I'm sure this has something to do with my admiration for the call to prayer.
In another dream, I'm about to meet a beautiful woman who is interested in me. Only I'm unable to have an intimate conversation with her due to my preoccupation with other smaller, more trivial conversations. I think this has something to do with the way Facebook, Twitter, etc. distract us from real human connection.
Istanbul Cont.
Saw Hagia Sofia finally. Breathtaking. Everything I anticipated. Later we saw a dance show--the whirling dervishes. They did a sama ceremony. It seemed weird to applaud what is meant to be an august and meditative spiritual ritual. But we did, along with all of the other smiling, dining tourists. It seemed even weirder to follow a religious ritual with a sexy belly dancer. But tourism comes before everything and maybe reduces everything to simulation. Or maybe not. If spiritual ecstasy can't express itself in the dance, maybe the dance, even when commodified, can create the ecstasy.
After the belly dancer, musicians came out to solicit money for the show we had already paid twenty dollars for.
Last day in our apartment near the airport, the less touristy, less western, part of the city. Hearing again the call to prayer echo off the rooftops I can see out our window.
We spent most of our holiday vacation here, so there isn't much touristy stuff left for us to do. Mostly we just settled into our apartment and dealt with the jet lag (strangely, Jesusa, who has been living here for over seven months, is struggling with it almost as much as I am), falling asleep between 2 and 4 am (though we get in bed at 12) and sleeping until 11 or 12 the next day, when we wake for breakfast. After breakfast, I go out to my favorite cafe to do a little writing and reading over a cup of Americano and a sugary pastry. Then it's back to the apartment for a bit of not-at-all-earned R and R. At about 4:30, we head out for lunch. A long walk to some part of the city thereafter and then out for some tapeando (tapas + ing). We went out with some of Jesusa's Colombian friends one night, a group of Couchsurfers another, and, on my birthday, went to Carmen, a Flamenco show, and to a nice restaurant after. Lots of good wine and good food. I'll have more to say about the beauties of Flamenco when we get back to Spain.
Istanbul
Woken up by the call to prayer. It moves me every time I hear it, makes me suddenly solemn, regardless of what I'm doing.
We didn't do much the first day. Took a walk and had lunch. The people are unbelievably friendly. We're staying near the airport, well outside of the tourist zones, and maybe for that reason the people here still find us exotic. And maybe they wouldn't be so friendly if I weren't with an attractive Colombian woman. When Jesusa left her sunglasses at the place we had lunch, two men from the kitchen chased us down about five blocks away in order to return them. After a coffee and tea, a man gave us a ride home because it was raining and we weren't dressed for it. The next day, at dinner, we ordered two durum from a small shop. The man brought us the durum and then a yogurt drink and two teas that we hadn't asked for. When we got up to pay and leave, he refused to take our money, which he did twice more on subsequent visits. We eventually learned to leave one or two things on our plates. If we didn't, he would bring us more food. He doesn't speak a word of English, but his unassuming smile and pleasant demeanor, even more generous than his actions, is something I hope stays with me.
Today we went to the Blue Mosque, which was quite impressive. In the tourist zones, most people speak English, unlike where we're staying, and they're still friendly though not quite as genuine, motivated more by the "plata" perhaps, than the people in the non-touristy areas.
When we got back to our place, the call to prayer chant started up again. It happens six times a day: twice in the early morning, again around noon, mid-afternoon, sunset (which, in the Muslim calendar marks the beginning of the new day, our morning), and evening.
At the Blue Mosque, they gave us a free informational seminar about the mosque and Muslim culture. While there's plenty to despise about the Muslim religion--most especially the militant permutations that have occurred in response to Colonialism and Globalization--there's much still to find appealing about the culture, perhaps the lone remaining contrast to western consumer lifestyles.
Dreams
I'm about to enter a Buddhist monastery as a monk. I'm uncertain about it, but a friend convinces me that it's "natural" and I join. Within the monastery, we hear a beautiful sound coming from outside. We go out to investigate and find one of the priests showing a number of other student monks a blank wall and, in song, describing the sounds made by the images on the wall. My friend rushes passed the wall and into the forest. I follow. I'm made to understand that the priest was playing a trick on everyone, reminding them that the finger that points to the moon should not be confused with the moon. The sound comes from the forest, not from the images or non-images on the wall or from the priest's singing.
I'm sure this has something to do with my admiration for the call to prayer.
In another dream, I'm about to meet a beautiful woman who is interested in me. Only I'm unable to have an intimate conversation with her due to my preoccupation with other smaller, more trivial conversations. I think this has something to do with the way Facebook, Twitter, etc. distract us from real human connection.
Istanbul Cont.
Saw Hagia Sofia finally. Breathtaking. Everything I anticipated. Later we saw a dance show--the whirling dervishes. They did a sama ceremony. It seemed weird to applaud what is meant to be an august and meditative spiritual ritual. But we did, along with all of the other smiling, dining tourists. It seemed even weirder to follow a religious ritual with a sexy belly dancer. But tourism comes before everything and maybe reduces everything to simulation. Or maybe not. If spiritual ecstasy can't express itself in the dance, maybe the dance, even when commodified, can create the ecstasy.
After the belly dancer, musicians came out to solicit money for the show we had already paid twenty dollars for.
Last day in our apartment near the airport, the less touristy, less western, part of the city. Hearing again the call to prayer echo off the rooftops I can see out our window.
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