Fallas Dance

Fallas is the yearly Spring festival celebrated here in Valencia. A fiend who's been to both Mardi Gras and Fallas told me that there isn't a point in going to New Orleans after experiencing Fallas. Here's what I wrote about Fallas for a class assignment. It may be a little abstract, and thus confusing for those who haven't been to Fallas, but this is what I wrote.

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Fallas: A collision, Rain into water, Cohesion through explosion--So many perspectives, so many mirrors built of faces, that in only one, the view of all can be seen.

Fallas: Sizzling grills of late night venders, Spaniards shouting songs so old that word and instrument are one, tribal drums banging Africa’s beat off of Europe’s walls, firecrackers popping and hissing, hinting that the pressure is becoming too much, laughing, clapping, talking, and crying are all Sound.  And the Sound is scattered and separate, but it’s all one—It flows across fields and streets, gathering feet and wheels, gaining speed and strength, as its’ current, like water above a drain, circles around and around a place and a moment. 

Fallas: Cartoonish statues of sarcasm marking centers of community, Mary, the People’s flower of the People’s flowers, golden beer sweating in the cool wind, cotton candy eating ninos’ faces, strollers guiding families, Falleros in high socks and vests, Falleras with knobbed hair and swinging earrings, and lights in the sky, defying the closing curtain of darkness. The outfits, constructions, uniforms, sun, blue-sky, moon, black sky, buildings, tents, foods, drinks, and streets are all Sight. And the Sight is scattered and separate, but it’s all one—It flies from glance to glance, bouncing off of souls and objects, gaining speed and strength, as its’ current, like dust in a tornado, circles around and around a place and a moment. 

Fallas: Human waste, alcohol, smoke from fire, smoke from explosions, smoke from cigarettes, food, flesh, and breath, are all Smell. And Smell is scattered and separate, but it’s all one—It wafts from cause to affect, enticing and repulsing, gaining speed and strength, as its’ current, like mist around a fan, circles around and around a place and a moment. It is too much.

Fallas: Smooth and glossy statues against fingertips, streets of stone underfoot, cool liquid and warm sustenance inside, community in soul, fatigue on top of bones, and joy on lips are all Feeling. And Feeling is scattered and separate, but it’s all one—it creeps across the skin, straightening hair and bumping pores, gaining speed and strength, as its’ current, like the moment before a kiss, circles around and around a place and a moment. 

Fallas is this end. Joy’s mother is sorrow. Hope, pleasure, hot, cold, food, drink, rest, and life are known only because of the comparative relief of their contrary. They are relief as in, “behind”, or supplying perspective, not necessarily in the sense of rest or ease. This end, or this relief, is unjustly repulsed and reviled in all but Fallas; it’s an unloved step-child, an enemy, an obstacle, and even an evil. But Fallas is a celebration and example of Understanding. Knowing that heat is at its’ greatest sensation just before it burns; Shower. Cold a beautiful respite, until it chills; Ice Cream. Drink a teacher of freedom until all is forgotten; Blackout. Rest a relief in the sense of ease until it overcomes; Death.

Fallas is too much. The flowing Sound, flying Sight, wafting Smell, and creeping Feeling are all beautiful in their circling and mounting. Fallas is a marathon, paced at a sprint, along a cliff bordering a tragic fall to overindulgence. Slipping just past the edge, allowing the pressure of the forces to mount so greatly as to steer Us over the edge, would mean a fall into a place where Mother Joy and Daughter Sorrow are no longer separate, but united in death.

So there is fire. It heats, kills, and clears. Like humanity it is capable of all that is across the spectrum. It is neither good nor bad, tangible or imaginary. Each night of Fallas the pyrotechnic is responsible for keeping Us on the cliff and not over it. The Sound, Feeling, Sight, and Smell are too much, too close to numbness, and too large for Us. And so, the pressure must be relieved and the Too Much must go somewhere. And so, as a boy sinks on a trampoline before he flies, and as a droplet torpedoes below the surface before it jumps back towards the sky, the pyro presses the red button, and into the black the Too Much explodes and explodes. Red hearts, cyclones of blue, sporadic wafting white, and showering silver. Some may think that the fireworks dance across our faces and into our souls through our awe stretched mouths. But what the Old Ones know, because they more than any have learned the need of End, is that it is our souls that are flowing, flying, wafting, and creeping out of our awe-stretched mouths—to celebrate their relief with a dance across the sky. The dance ends. There is silence while the souls return. And then we sprint the marathon along the cliff, trusting that tomorrow, there will again be a dance across the nighttime.

Something I Found in a Lost Jacket

Today I went looking and I found something.

Last night some friends and I listened to boring music with voices as instruments and we talked about the people who were stolen from us, and the songs that they had taken with them. “I want to play this song or that song”, we said, “but I can’t because of her or him or this time or that”, we said. But it wasn’t sad. There are new songs, and for us in the room, songs that we now have together, and our heartbeats’ are still the same as our mothers’ and someone said, “summer follows spring follows winter follows fall. And not because the world is stuck on a track, but because each day God decides what day He will delight in.”

This morning I was able to take the comforter off, but last night’s conversations were still draped around me. But this wasn’t sad because “rich” and “sad” are not the same, and thinking is rich. I walked down the stairs so that I could go outside and find something.

I didn’t find it in the first place that I looked, or the second, but on the third try I found a jacket that someone had lost. The jacket looked warm, comfortable, and familiar. It looked warmer than any of the jackets that I've owned, and  It looked like a jacket that loved and was loved. I slid my arms down its' sleeves and buttoned it tightly around my waist, hoping to feel as its' owner had---but the jacket wasn't for me. It fit who it loved.  And as I took it off, the seams ripped and tore. I immediately hated my lust, cursed my selfishness, and wished very badly that I could put it back on the shoulders that it surely missed. I felt like a thief and a killer and all of my grief couldn't repair. But out of the ripping and tearing fell a note. 


The note is short and magical, but written in Times New Roman font and on a sheet of computer-paper. At the bottom, after the part where it says “love”, was my name. But when I handed the letter to a friend, her name was written where mine had been, and then as it was passed around it showed the name of he/she who held the letter. Some of us said, “This isn’t from me, it couldn’t be…could it?” and others of us said, “From me? Yes. By me? No”. And here’s what the note said:

Dear, I Am

            I’m sorry. Help. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Help. Thank You. I love. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I love. I’m sorry. I’m loved. Thank You.

                                                                                      Love,

It took one guy ten seconds to read the note, a girl fifteen minutes, her sister an hour, and so on. The words, other than the signature, don’t change—but extending invisibly from the lines that say, “I’m sorry”, “Help”, “Thank You”, and “I love”, are words like “for”, “with”, and places like “Lamb Mountain”, “the lake”, “the dump”, and names like _____, and _______, and_____________, and ___, and___, and ________, and____, and______, and_____, and____, and_____, and _____, and_____, and_____, and________,_____, and _______, and__________, and ___, and___, and ________, and____, and______, and_____, and____, and_____, and _____, and_____, and_____, and______,_____, and _______, and_______, and______, and ___, and___, and ________, and____, and______, and_____, and____, and_____, and _____, and_____, and_____, and________.

The page is empty now. We wrote this note and we're writing again. Look for the love notes in the things that we've lost. Breath, look, find.

The Wolves Wrestled at Night and It was Beautiful

The rain fell a little more lightly on my way back to our apartment. Trudging to the store each drop was thick and heavy, exploding onto my shoulders, hands, hair, and face.

In my head I was bitching.

“Why does it have to cold-rain on me the one time I go to the store to get the ingredients for our apartment’s dinner?  Are the Euro’s trying to drive their G.D clown cars in the gutter?  My feet hurt. My shoes are getting wet. I don’t have enough shoes. My roommate is sleeping and I’m walking in the rain to get food that he’ll eat. “

And as I bitched my anger went from soft orange to violent violet as I realized that:

“I’ve only gotten the groceries once, and yet I’ve eaten at least twenty meals. Europe rules. I didn’t even buy the shoes that I have.  And it’s probably a little unfair to categorize sleeping as selfish. “

But it wasn’t raining in the store, and I looked so dumb trying to execute the list that I’d been given that the security guard all but held my hand as he led me to each of the items on my list.

All but one.

The ice-cream goes with the lava cakes which are a fan favorite and a bad thing to screw up. I forgot the ice-cream because the security guard had to check the security of the parking deck, so I didn’t have a dad, and because:

A curly blonde with watercolor-blue eyes asked me if I speak English. In my head I knew to answer “yes”, but my when my mouth dropped 4 sentences in one exhale, and the watercolors seemed confused by my gargling, I tried again: “Yyyeeesss”. We then small talked about where we’re living, how she’s from Germany, and how lucky I am to have ladies to cook for me. (During the conversation I realized that in situations of small talk I am literally the most generic person. If my name was Gary no one would ever remember me). We shook hands, said “goodbye”, and then awkwardly ran into each other next to the chocolates, then the butter, and lastly at the beer. I was out of things to say by the butter. No phone number, no facebook, nothing but gratitude that the security guard didn’t know enough English to be embarrassed by me. The hero working at the check-out line said that I needed my passport to pay, which has never happened anywhere, and so I said, “Lo siento”, which means “I’m sorry”. So he said, “ Spanish Spanish Spanish Spanish no Spanish Spanish Spanish passport Spanish Spanish”. So I thought, gestured artfully, and said, “lo siento”. He let me pay and go. (I wish I were as dumb in English as I am in Spanish. I bet “I’m sorry” has a higher success rate than “your occupation is silly.”)

This is going somewhere.

The rain fell a little more lightly on my way back to our apartment. Halfway through the half-mile walk I “took a knee”. I sat against a green wooden door, gaining some refuge from the doorframe, and lit one of my precious cloves. (If you feel convicted I can give you an address to send some to.) Of course the quiet, as it always seems to be, was a miracle. I don’t want to basterdize what I saw, but the rain was waving like sheets in the wind, most visible in the tunnels of the car lights and in front of the ancient towers in front of our apartment.

The rain reminded me of the four-day walk some friends and I went on for the first part of Spring Break. The walk is called The Camino de Santiago .  I’ll leave describing the walk for another day, or I won’t, but the brief of it is that we walked 110 kilometers across northwest Spain—stopping to eat apples and nuts, and resting at cheap communal hostels. On the way to the bus station, which is located a mile from our apartment, my back was already hurting, my shoe broke (Nike Shocks generally have 4 shocks, mine had 3), and I realized that I didn’t know anyone that I’d be spending 5 days of misery with.  My mood remained similar through the first day of walking: It rained all day, as it would each of the next three, unless of course it was haling. My feet swelled into marsh-mellows, and then my left ankle, and because I couldn’t help but limp to spare the left, my right knee ached. Again, I bitched in my head. And I really was a touch miserable. And the oppression of knowing that the next day would be almost twice as long as the current one, was mentally crippling. So I was limping in all senses.

But just as quiet is often a miracle, so too is everything else. And that’s what I learned.

The pain we all felt was galvanizing. And now I know about the old loves, parents, dreams, favorite movies, mistakes, and authenticities of a few who can say, “We walked together”.  And I love them for seeing me.  Thomas Merton says, “The Desert Fathers believed that the wilderness had been created as supremely valuable in the eyes of God precisely because it had no value to men. The wasteland was the land that could never be wasted by men because it offered them nothing. There was nothing to attract them. There was nothing to exploit…God’s plan was that they should learn to love Him in the wilderness and that they should always look back upon the time in the desert as the idyllic time of their life with Him alone.” And it is. The People could have gotten to what was promised in only a few days, just as a car could have gone to Santiago in an hour, keeping us free of pain, rain, and smelliness, but both We and The People may have in exchange lost everything. 

And that’s what I remembered when my back was against the green door. And that’s when I reconsidered The Beauty. And I realized that I could walk in the rain because I’ve walked in the rain. I’ve had the rain in my socks, under my shirts, and falling from my hair to my nose to my chest. I’ve known the rain so intimately that my skin changed and the invisible strings from my shoulders to my boots were tight, and I’ve become heavy. But the rain isn’t against me. The rain is the rain and in life we have rain and what I’ve learned is that I thank God for the rain because the rain falls on my face and I feel it. I thank God because—even though it makes things slippery, and messes up hair, and makes me use my wipers (which make awful noises)—it is part of what we’ve been given. And the rain is sometimes loneliness, and sometimes fear, and sometimes anxiety, and sometimes cancer, and sometimes a lie, and sometimes distance, and sometimes memory, and sometimes it’s water droplets; but I know it.

So when it rains, I’ll dance.  

And if I can’t dance, then I’ll watch.

And if I can’t watch, then I’ll feel each drop that lands on my shoulders, hands, hair, and face.  

And if you get too heavy, or the strings get too tight, then I’ll say, “I know the rain and I love you.” And I’ll remind you that it’s rained before, but that it’s always stopped.

I walked home in the rain. Dinner was great.

After The Camino we went to the Canary Islands and drank colorful drinks on the black-sand beaches.

"Can I accept that I am worth looking for? Do I believe that there is a real desire in God to simply be with me?

Here lies the core of my spiritual struggle: the struggle against self-rejection, self-contempt, and self-loathing.  It is a very fierce battle because the world and its demons conspire to make me think about myself as worthless, useless, and negligible.  Many consumerist economies stay afloat by manipulating the low self esteem of their consumers and by creating spiritual expectations through material means.  As long as I am kept "small," I can easily be seduced to buy things, meet people, or go places that promise a radical change in self-concept even though they are totally incapable of bringing it about.  But every time I allow myself to be thus manipulated or seduced, I will have still more reasons for putting myself down and seeing myself as the unwanted child."

                                                                                                                    -Henri Nouwen

"The greatest disaster of the spiritual life is to be immersed in unreality"

                                                                                                                   -Thomas Merton