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.