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I just wrote for a little while. At first I thought that I was going to write something good about this one thing, and then it ended up being bad and about another thing. I kept it, but it was too boring to re-read myself.

I'm in one of the bedrooms of an apartment in San Sebastian. The city is comfortable and active, and last night we watched the sun set over islands and ocean. I stood at the foot of a monumental statue of Christ, which is on top of a small mountain, and debated the practice of carving Aryan-Christian-deities--awe inspiring, set atop a hill with His sun on the back of His Son...and also stone carved and shaped life gold, into a calf that looks like a man. Anyway, I grew weary of thinking and realized how much hope there is. And even though i may have thought of hope because of the statue, or because The Day (Easter), calls for it, I was aware of it. And I am hopeful.

It's rained upon our beach-town every day that we've been here. I sold my only jacket and I'm going to Ireland. I understand that it'll probably rain there as well, but that through the use of shabby pubs, the Irish have conquered the gloom of grey and wet. Cheers.

We were I and Me

We were not always We, but instead many I’s.  I am from Asheville and I am going to Spain. I am from South, North, East, West, and Central Florida and I am going to Spain. I am from The Quad Cities, Waterloo, Iowa City, and New Jersey and I am going to Spain. I am from Sorority, Fraternity, Friend Group, Church, Synagogue, Team, Lineage, This Job, That Job, and I am going to Spain.  I am from America and I am going to Spain. I am big and I am going to Spain. That’s what I said.

           

In the airport I said, “Hi Me, I am I”, and Me responded and said, “Hi I, I am Me”, and I wondered who Me is—and what Me’s parents are like, where Me is from, what music makes Me think, who Me’s friends are, what Me likes to eat, where Me finds solace, if Me feels lonely also, whether Me will be close to I, how Me’s face will change from meaning its structure to meaning who Me is, and I longed for Me to like I.  I hoped that Me and I would dance and sing together, and that maybe I would make jokes that made Me laugh, and that maybe Me would do the same for I. I wondered the same. And if I would tell Me things that few others new, and I wondered if Me would love I after I told Me the things I was ashamed of. Me wondered if I would hold Me’s secret’s and cares closely, and Me wondered if Me would tell I anything at all.  Both Me and I thought of each other, but each stayed themselves. Me thought about Me’s mom, and how she was probably making Me’s favorite meal. I thought about I’s dad, and how he was probably playing golf at I’s favorite course. Me remembered his dog, how he barked, how only shit on cement, and how Me loved him. I guessed that I’s friends were playing Halo or throwing the football or having a party. Me missed Me’s best friend and I missed I’s other. Me and I each wondered if they’d be forgotten, missed, remembered, and by whom. But despite the thoughts of known and familiar, Me and I were hopeful. Me and I drove and flew and rode separately, but both in a hope for adventure, and in an expectation of change, and in the knowledge that big was scary, small desirable, and the transformation illusive.

           

In the first days Me and I were apart, and La Plaza de Virgen, with its dark-tiled floor and ode to The River, a distant walk.  The Riverbed was a gutter, The City of Arts and Sciences--a spaceship, Spaniards—little people from a movie, The Staff--Faculty, Roommates--strangers, Lavin--a weird word, Café con Leche--lacking coffee, food portions--tiny, The Central Market—smelly, The Train Station—hectic, dinners—anxious, alcohol---a relief, and comfort—as lost as familiarity.  Me and I, outside of the things which they left at home, were no longer sure who they were. Me and I did, said, and thought things that were not characteristic—or they were, and Me and I realized that Me and I were different than Me and I had imagined ourselves to be. Maybe Me and I regretted the differences, maybe Me and I loved them, maybe they weren’t changes but instead admissions, and maybe Me and I were changing as Me and I thought of changing.

Me walked down Calle Caballeros, away from La Virgen and towards The Other Torres, passing tall buildings painted yellow, brown, faded pink, and crème. Me thought that the streets were narrow and the cars small. I ran down the riverbed, under a stone bridge groaning of the past, and then a white one shouting of the future. I ran in the walking path, and then the biking path, and then in mud, and then, finally in the running path. I thought that Spanish people’s running pants were underwear, and that Spaniards will kiss anywhere. In restaurants and bars Me heard whiny music and I chewed on the same bit of fishy gum for an hour. I wondered if the music was a joke and Me wondered if he would starve in Spain. I said something to me about the music, and Me laughed. Me said something about the food, still chewing, and still miserable. I laughed. Me and I played European Futbol. Me and I sucked at it. Me partied late at Bolseria, La Klocka, and Las Animas because Me found security there. I stayed in and watched movies and read because I found security there. Me thought I was on to something, and I thought Me was too.

Then Me and I travelled. Me went to Paris and saw Notre Dame, The Tower, and Versailles. I went to Portugal and walked through the gardens of Centra and by the graffiti of Lisbon.  Me drank red wine from baby bottles, I took close pictures of flowers, and Me and I realized that they loved where they were, but that home was in the shadow of the Serranos. I missed Me, Me missed I, and both looked forward to eating with one another below Negrtio’s chalk-board sign.  Me read the short powerful prose of For Whom the Bell Tolls, because I suggested it, and I took shots of caramel whiskey at New Orleans, because Me suggested it. Me cooked for I, and I cleaned for me, and in the ambiguous mix of emotion and experience Me and I and Valencia became We.

We walked inside the white soft walls of the Hamman, dirtied our feet in the irrigated fields, grazed our chests against bulls, and We saw the sunrise. We went to Lavin and sat in comfortable silence together, we raided Pon de Queso, we realized that The Staff was not Faculty, but We. We played soccer and capture the flag in the riverbed, and the riverbed was a playground, not a gutter. We shared pots and pans and We lost every one of the small colorful cups that came with the apartment. We replaced them with permanently borrowed glasses. We shared packs of cigarettes, bought each other drinks, and studied together--but partied together more. We yelled out song lyrics, We danced, and We kissed the people that other members of We had already kissed. We lay on one another’s beds in great heaps and joked about the night before. We lay on one another’s bed’s in great heaps and joked about the night to come. We untagged compromising photos of ourselves making drunk faces and we quietly looked at pictures of ourselves in front of historic structures. We learned the names of each other’s parents and siblings and friends. We realized that Virgen is close, the streets intimate, Arts and Sciences magnificent, and the running pants—still too tight. We talked about our passions and our hatreds and we travelled again. We saw the Vatican, Mediterranean, Eastern Europe, Morocco, UK, and Spain.

Fallas came and went and we learned about renewal, pacing ourselves, and paella. We danced in a big white tent with Spaniards who called us friends, We grew numb to the sound of popping fireworks, We walked alongside parades, We hated and love bullfights, We watched our faces, which now meant more than their structure, hold the fireworks’ poses, and knew life here, and forgot life there. We went to the symphony of Valencia and loved it, but We already knew that a collaborative noise of many different sounds, creates the most beautiful production. We learned that Lavin is where Andrea works, that Ali is the guy who sells “cerveza fria” on the streets, and that Ignacio’s preferential gin is Seagram’s. We know that Maria’s comforting smile means more than language can express, Catti keeps people dancing, Juan Carlos speaks no English except for “shhhh!”, Desk David cares, Dolo has a boyfriend, (dammit), DJ presses the button to the glass door, Hemma’s not as tough as she seems, Alicia’s an aficionado, the cleaning ladies laugh at EVERYTHING, the internet and printer are terrible, the toilet paper downstairs is free, always party in apartment 3 because they’ll be meeting with Ignacio anyway, the tiles in front of the Study Center are in fact a road, and Coop has never been wrong about anything except for once thinking that he might be wrong.    

We saw the end in sight and we imagined hugging those who are away, but we blocked thoughts of losing those who are here. We said: “Living in Valencia has been the craziest roller-coaster of our lives. We’ve made undoubtedly some of the most lasting friendships with some of the craziest, yet most exciting people We have ever had a chance to know. This town has transformed our idea of studying, traveling and learning a language, into the experience that people call "studying abroad”. Whether the others who are not here were unable to afford the price, unable to step out of the box, or unwilling to accept uncertainty, We feel sorry that they are not able to know what we do. Tallahassee, Orlando, Miami and Iowa City will be there when we return, just as we have left them, however our lives will not be the same.”

We knew that we would miss “the nights that ended with morning, meals fed more by stories than food”, and the silence of a train car looking outside, but thinking of the inside. We knew that We’d miss the “mullets, rat tails, Mohawks, and faux-hawks. We’d miss scanning the sidewalks for poop, and the smears of the unlucky. We’d miss fifteen minute class breaks that were thirty minute class breaks. We’d miss learning. We’d miss dryer-room drama, the chime of the elevator and ring of the door. We’d miss movie nights, family dinner nights, and trips on Fridays. We knew that we’d miss the echo from the staircase, the clicking of heels and the padding of bare-feet. We knew we would miss.”  

But We also remembered that someone said: “The rhythm of our hearts will change as we scatter and return to the familiar or find new faces to entertain. Fortunately for us, ours will always beat with Spanish undertones. We have that. Together. So walk in love the way you did here, no matter where you go, my lovely.”

We had, “Candle lit nights, full of energized conversation with a ukulele harmonizing to the beat of our hearts. Nights standing on the balcony, throwing cigarette butts down below to see who can make them into the iron gutter. Talk of first impressions, first conversations, first mistakes, and how so much has changed in the three short months that We have known each other. ‘Guys, we only have two months left…’ ‘Only one month left, ya’ll…’ Any utterance of this sort is always rebutted with ‘Shut up, I don’t want to think about it.’

“We never want to leave; for fear that We may lose what We have found. It’s impossible to imagine Our lives anywhere but here. We have become a source of life to ourselves. Gone are the days of sleep, routine, solitude, rigorous schoolwork, monotony and insignificant priorities. We’re finally living and We don’t want it to end. We are rich; beauty has found Us and wrapped Us in its cloak. It has come to Us in the form of people; people We would have never met before, and now can’t imagine living without. It has come to Us in the form of places. Places that were once only a passing thought or a figment of Our imagination, but our now places of home.”

“We came into Our lives, and just as the places we’ve gone, We’ll remember. Here has become Our home, and We our family. It seems like I’s and Me’s want We, but just as they find It, We says ‘goodbye’”.

We said this and learned this and spoke this and more. We each have stories of cathedrals, fields, moments, and people. We are different than We were---How could We not be? The life that comes from 3, the class from 4, the sass from 5, the art from 6, the selflessness from 7, and the diversity from Top Shelf—who would Me I and We be without each of those? The details and senses of Valencia are in the people who’ve joined Us in growing intimate with Her. We all know the Smell, emitted from people, food, and streets. The Sound, breathed of nature, man, and machine. The Touch, lent by sea breeze, stone, and iron. The Sight, reflected off of ancient, new, and Us. And We know Valencia; with legs of orange trees, a belly of paella, and eyes like fireworks.  

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

So I was right about a couple of things. The first is that I’m embarrassed. If I weren’t me, I might think that I’m “off my rocker”. And I’ll always allow for the possibility that I am, but I still think that I’m not.

Today two of my roommates mentioned my blog to me. One asked me if I was “falling” last night, because of how furiously I was typing, and the said that they weren’t sure what to say because saying that it was “good” had already been labeled “bullshit”. Another friend told me that it was “honest, and good, but not great”. A third encouraged me to write more of what I’ll regret because that stuff’s her favorite; my dad said that, “for at least half the days, or more, my string should not pull on you, because my love for you has done the pulling that day, and you were with me and I did hold you and I did sing to you because I will love you for always and like you forever and my baby you'll always be”, which I think is maybe the most beautiful thing. Of course everything I write will be heard differently in different ears. And none of the sounds are wrong. But it is important that this is understood; honesty is the stag of my pursuit. I’m not on a mission to make known my emotions or thoughts. Not honesty in the details of life, but Honesty of life. As experience speaks to me about learning to love, fear, travel, share, hide, cry, and hold hope, then I’ll speak back in and through the only medium that I  can—and that’s this. I can’t sing in the shower or play the guitar in the dark or capture lights on paper, but my fingers can reach all of the keys without getting too far away from my heart.

Last night I said something that was true, even though it may not be today. I go to history class, I play fart-tennis, and I’ll say the DUMBEST thing if it means girls will laugh—the strings and hooks and hearts were true, because I felt them, but I’m not the dude who had all those chains around himself when he was warning Scrooge.  They were there last night, when a lot collided with a lot, and I knew that if I was feeling this thing, then someone else had probably felt it as well. And if would be so shortsighted as to write it on the internet, then maybe that person and I could tug twice on our strings to say “I know”.  

Hooks

I’ve said that I write for an outlet, as a means to release the brewing pressures and fusions of my insides. But that’s not really the case. Maybe it’s more often about attention or affirmation or the hope that people will read something that ive written, and that they’ll be able to feel like there’s someone else who knows. Maybe it’s because I know that hair dies and skin sags but text, even if never read, will be there. But this is of the “outlet” variety, an attempt to evade crying on someone’s shoulder because of my weak legs, or saying things that I mean but will be unable to substantiate through action. This is the option that isn’t the option for the more brave.

There are things that I write late at night with wine and The National playing and the lights off, and those things should be reread in the morning. The things that I write on those nights, on tonights, should be left in a journal or emailed to an X girlfriend. But I won’t. And I’m not sure why. Tomorrow I will be embarrassed. People will say that they loved my post or bullshit about my honesty and I won’t believe them. I know that it will be read selfishly and with scrutiny—you’ll decide whether you “liked” or “didn’t like” what you read…you’ll evaluate the grammar and the content and you’ll create hypotheses regarding my motives and authenticity. I hate that I know that which will happen and I equally hate that I do the same. Why when I read can I not leave the text to “just be”. Why do I sift it through preconceived notions and calculations? And already, as I reread what’s already been written I cringe and clinch. I affirm the things about me that I argue are untrue. I overestimate the richness of my own feelings, I shout for approval, and even my claims of brokenness stem from a pride in my own awareness of my own depravity. It would be better if I would make self-deprecating jokes while telling sensational stories, but some things are too big for stories and jokes and must instead just be told.  

Tonight I looked through a computer screen at my mom and dad, my sister, her son, and her pregnant belly, my little brother, who I thought was 8, but is actually 17, and my best friend, who is so intimately my friend that he’s also my family’s. The pixelated and fragmented screen, freezing and jumping, showed one of the worlds that I love, all connected and eating my favorite dessert around my kitchen table. I read messages and emails from other worlds too. I was loved by the friends who are getting married and by the family that reads my letters and by the guy who suggested that book and by the buddy who wrote me a note and by the girl that made jokes in class and by the teacher that said something I did was “good” and by the hosts who made meals and provided couches and by the author of this book or of that one and by the fog that connected the ocean to the mountains, making it seem as if both sprang from the middle, one falling and the other rising, and by the hail that fell on my arms while I walked, and by my dog, and by a song, and I wish that I could forget all of it. I wish that none of it were a part of me. Taking me.

A woman in a book tells her husband that it’s “a shame that life is so precious. It makes us worry so much”. And that’s where I am. The love of The Beauty cannot be withheld and yet we’re damned for it. Our guts are strings, hooked to people, places, and moments in strongly bound knots. We go to this school before that school and hold hands with this girl and then that one and love this person and then that one and all of these outreaching hooks, stemming from ourselves and remaining taught until they reach The Beauty, pull away from their origin and destination with equal force. Loving The Beauty means damning the beauty. It means seeing life in my sister’s belly before I lay my hand on it, and merely thinking of my brother when he gets home from dates, and saying “thanks” and “it’s so much fun” to my parents instead of doing dishes or watching black and white movies in the early morning. It means that the plans and futures of the people I’m with now will one day be far stretching hooks and strings to old memories. What I’m trying to say is that there’s too much. I neglect The Beauty because The Beauty is in everyone and everywhere and I can’t reel all the strings at once. I mean that I can’t live a long life because time means more beauty and more beauty means knowing that I’m not loving this beauty or that beauty as much as I need to—and I already have too many strings.

I hate this post. There isn’t background or explanation. It’s ambiguous and my minute skill with my supposed craft leaves it appearing to be an attempt at something abstract. It’s not. I mean to be simple. I went on a 4 day walk this spring break and I lustily gathered the burdens, hopes, and secrets of the new friends who walked with me. Tonight I got home to the friends who went elsewhere and I had to be by myself so that I wouldn’t say mean things. I knew I would say mean things because I was overwhelmed with a terrifying amount feeling for them. We’ll all say goodbye in 2 months. Another goodbye. Another transition and tearing and stretching.  

I don’t have the capacity to send the amount of letters I want to send and I don’t have the memory to keep all the fog and sunsets. Over and over again I lose the things that I love. In Spain I’ve lost all that isn’t here, in Northwest Spain I’ve lost all that isn’t there, and then when I return to some of what I love in America I’ll have lost all that is here. No wonder we’re all crazy. What a disaster it is that everyone we love isn’t in the same place, at the same time. I know that this is true of everyone, and yet I don’t suspect that any of this is “landing”. If I try to explain I’ll just repeat, and if I don’t share then I’m a liar, and so Ill wrap it up: I think that I’m terrified all of the time. I call lying in bed “sleeping” because a reel of The Beauty plays through my mind and I want to slam my head through the window for each portion of The Beauty in my life that goes seemingly unacknowledged. I want to curl up in my sister’s stomach and tell her baby that I’ll “love it forever” and “like it for always”. I want to tattoo, with the longest needles, the outline of my hand onto my back for once leaving the same red outline on my brother’s. I want to tell the people from Field Day in elementary school, the MCC fair in middle school, youth group in high school, college, kamp (no typo), the road trip, Spain, sports teams, DUI class, family and strangers that I love them--and not when I’m saying goodbye to them, but on ordinary Tuesdays and in the middle of conversations about chewing gum and sports.

I love The Beauty, and I suppose that living is synonymous with The Beauty, but being so incapable of dealing with it, having desire exceed my abilities of execution by this great a margin is a difficult daily failure to swallow. Tomorrow someone that I love won’t have any proof.   

THE POST THAT IS NOT AS EXCITING AS THE LAST

In one of my classes we were asked to write a one page reflection on our mini-field-trip to the train station. I've posted about benevolent millionaires and near death experiences, but that isn't the Spain I know. Events are making the timeline, but moments are making the time:

Valencia’s Practical Aesthetic

Beyond City Hall and The Post Office, at the end of La Calle Avinguda del Marques de Satelo, after the bouncing neon vested operator of the jackhammer, to the right of the sand-brown, brick arena of La Plaza de Toros de Valencia, through the fence of deep-green iron spires which are planted in the top of a shattered-white-tile-wall, over the row of slanted white parking lines, coal black cobblestones, and lanes of modern asphalt, between the circle-topped, symmetrically rippled,  black cylinders that line the drop-off lane, beyond the two light-towers of recurring tile and iron, and resting upon the dark square-foot tiles is La Estacion del Nord.

With my legs stretched and crossed one over the other, sitting on the same dark tiles as the station, leaning against one of the rippled posts, no longer aware of the car-horns, jackhammer, or rolling wheels, I began to dig through layers. I didn’t want the text to show me seeing, but to show what I’ve seen. And first there were the layers: Socks under boots that are over jeans which disappear into sweaters that are beneath coats but surrounding shirts that are capped by scarves. Or: The grandfather who is staring at the earth and shuffling an inch at a time, positioned further up my horizon than the two smoking divas whose heels click as they stomp towards the street, but not as far as the teen-girl sitting thin legged and awkward in her boyfriend’s lap, at first reluctant to kiss him, but relenting as he whispers what for them is a “something” but for us a “nothing”. The couple embraces and leans against the large oak door at the center of La Estacion. Flashes of strollers, backpacks, suitcases, briefcases, bags, hats, canes, smoke, jackets, and flesh walk between us, cutting the story like the pages of a flip-book.   

A Flaming Horned Bull hit me in the Chest

Now

I can’t look back. Knowing where it is and how quickly it’s moving from “is” to “will be” would offer temporary comfort, but looking back will cost me cobblestones. And cobblestones are what I need. The multi-colored, uneven, ancient stones used to pave the narrow streets of Segorbe are too slow in passing beneath my leather Dockers.

Dockers--the first poor decision of the day. Down the hill which the village rests on, along the tracks cutting through the orange groves, across the WELL-PAVED streets of Valencia, thirteen hours in the past and back in the Study Center I made a mistake. To the left of my bed there are three pairs of shoes: Nike Shocks, Dockers, and Sanuk’s. Sanuk’s are for the beach, Nike’s are for running, and Dockers are for aesthetics. I’m running, had known that I would be running, and yet I’m in Dockers.

Before Now

Dan was a little bit ahead of me in our attempt to flee.  

Dan is tall and Dan is good. Dan’s always carrying extra bags and slapping people on the back and eating one piece of bread when he probably wants two. In fact, I’m not even sure if Dan thinks bad things about people.

I sneak rolls into my pockets and people who disagree with me are stupid. We’re basically twins.

He jumped up the yellow wall, grabbed one of the iron bars protecting the window, and pulled himself to safety. It was athletic, brave, and impressive. I also saw the window, but because it was over four and a half feet in the air, and because this running was my first running in at least a year, I knew that I couldn’t reach it.  I made two mental notes as I scurried past my safe friend:

1)      Always take Dan’s rolls because things even out.

2)      Tomorrow, curse God one more time than normal for making my little brother taller than me.

Shortly after the second mental note, and feeling the thick pack of Marlboro Reds pressed against my leg with each desperate stride, I seamlessly returned to begging The Big Guy for faster moving cobblestones. I guess it should be more difficult to transition from cursing to begging, but in addition to a life full of practice, this was the second time in only a few hours that begging had superseded contemplation and reflection. He was more patient the first time.

Before, Before Now

The first time I had been leaning against one of the barriers, which kept the Crazies in and the Reasonables out, talking to Coop, when we heard the bells and hooves. It wasn't jolly St. Nick. True to my policy, I ran without looking—but I could tell from the women’s faces as they stood on their balconies, the increase in foreign yelling, and the million other things that I’m sure the adrenaline pumped brain is aware of, that danger was near. There was a barrier directly ahead, which also functioned as a ladder, but it was full and the time it would take to climb may have been too great. I cut left and up the hill along a side-walk sized street. I stumbled. My right foot, probably because it was in a pretty shoe, caught on a stone that was a little higher than the others. I pitched forward until my face was a foot from the ground. I knew that I would fall and be killed, but was pleasantly surprised by the recovery of a right leg that understood the situation. As I regained balance I broke my chief rule and turned around. Coop and the enemy were too close to each other, and more importantly, far too close to me.

Coop looks like Shaggy from Scooby Doo, is named Coop, and is never serious.

Typical conversation with Coop:

“Coop, what time is it?”                                                                                                                                       

“What time isn’t it?”

“Really though, I need to know for some really super important reason”

“What reasons wouldn’t be really super important, Wilson?”

“Coop”

“Yeah”

Coop was about seven to ten feet behind me and he was terrified. Or more accurately, he was serious. And seeing Coop serious was scarier than the flaming ton of demon only a yard behind him. But we made it. We reached the top of the street, stepped through a barrier with vertical bars too closely planted for our pursuer to skewer us, and slapped its hind as it ran by. We were, and I mean this in the Im-a-middle-school-girl-and-a-guy-who-can-drive-just-asked-me-on-a-date way, freaking out.

As Coop and I had been running I had been begging. I can’t speculate as to the thoughts of God, but I imagine that the first time I asked not to be killed, The Big Guy was less than impressed. Thinking something like, “I made animals without horns, why are you in the street with one that has them?” (I recognize the possibility that someone will be offended that my “God voice” asks questions. If so, please stop reading my blog...notice I said “reading”, and not “please stop clicking on the ads in my blog/viewing my blog 37 times a day).

Anyway.

Now

The stones aren’t moving quickly enough, the nice athletic people are safe, I’m as serious as Coop, and now it’s just me and The Bull.

The Fiestas de San Anton, which is the proper name of the festival, is really three barricaded streets and two bulls. The first bull, which ran rampant for an hour is the one pictured above. The bull is obviously large and scary, but is nonetheless a calf compared the second. I couldn't find pictures of the second, which I believe to be rather indicative of its temperament and girth. This second bull, which I've creatively named Toro Grande, was released at 1am. 

Toro Grande is behind me.

I’ve been taught to show, not tell. I’ve also been taught to write, not emote. I’ll try to hold tightly to those lessons now, especially considering the situation I was in. But know that the next 5 seconds of time occurred over the span of hours. And know that I had feeling from my heart to the tips of the hair on my arms. And know that the true fear has only landed in the following days. In the moment I was beyond fear. There was only what I must do. I didn’t consider the gravity of anything. I only did everything that my body could, and then I got lucky.

My first escape option is ten yards ahead on the left. This option is an iron fence, about five feet tall, and sitting a foot outside of the walls that over-lap its edges. Runners can enter from either side of the fence and slide between the fence and wall until they reach the nook made by a restaurant’s entryway. My other option is to keep running until I reach another intersection of three streets. The bull is fast, but apparently struggles with turns on the cobblestone. There is also the possibility that in the more crowded intersection, a new target would be chosen. But I’m not sure how close Toro Grande is, and despite my adrenaline, I know that I’m losing my kick. I cut left towards the fence, see that it’s full, and realize that my decision to get behind the fence has left me without options. The fence is about ten feet long, and though I didn’t stop to try and slide in the first entry, the mere end of sprinting is akin to stepping off of one of those speed-walking ramps at the airport. I still can’t look back, but I know that he’s closing. I also know that because his goal is to spear me, there is no need for him to slow as he approaches walls and iron. Still travelling at a high speed, I grab the last of the iron fence to swing myself between the fence and the wall.

But my swinging body is stopped too early. I slam into the wall of humanity that is spewing from the fence's edges. There is no room. My vision is narrow, but I catch a glimpse of Toro Grande. He’s at the far side of the street, which is the size of a normal American sidewalk; because he’s arching his charge into me-squaring me up, but obviously still running. I turn to the guy I’ve run into. It’s Ben, a guy from Iowa who’s in our program. His eyes are large, mouth slightly open, and he’s helpless. I turn back. The bull’s head is lowered and about three feet from me. With it down, his head is as high as my knees. I’ve seen how he hits. Earlier he tried to attack through a barrier. I know about the lower-his-head-so-that-he-can-upper-cut-into-my-ribs thing. I know he’s going to hit me. It’s too late to cut left because his horns are too wide. I obviously can’t drop to the ground. Even though that might earn me one miss, he could then stab and stab and stomp and stab. I already tried right, to no avail. Nowhere to go. 

My upper back is against the smooth, earth-toned wall. His head, which is now close to being between my legs, rises towards my stomach with his left horn leading. In case you’ve forgotten, the horns are on fire, he’s a bull, and he’s been running. I do what’s natural. I push in the opposite direction of the attack, jumping up against the wall. But I know that I'm already against the wall. There is no going further backwards. But there is a little “up” available. I don’t think to do it, but in my effort to push away, I grab the base of his left horn, which is now near my naval, and push. Of course my “pushing” does nothing, but Toro Grande messes up. I sometimes forget that animals mess-up at being animals. Flying squirrels fall, cheetahs trip, and bulls buck their heads too early. Toro Grande’s left horn misses the piercing angle and the tip of his horn, surrounded by flames, slides up into my jacket. I can smell the burning. I wonder if the horn is inside my chest. I think that it should be hurting more than it is. I know that my life is about to pour out following the exiting horn. I don’t notice the pressure of my back against the wall. I don’t know yet, that the bull’s horn is blunt against my chest, pinning me between the hardened hair and even wall. Toro Grande steps back and inexplicably continues running down the street.

As slowly as things were happening during the collision, they’re now moving equally as fast. Hands are all over me, pulling me into the nook. Brown faces at first concerned, and then relieved. I slide my hand under my jacket and shirt to feel my chest. The skin is still hot, there’s a cut, and pressure like I was punched, but no puncture. Nothing.

“Estoy bien. Estoy bien. Estoy bien. Estoy bien. Estoy bien”, is all that I can/know to say. Someone pulls me up to what is now a crowd of brown-faced smiles and pats on the back. A man with a vest on is starts yelling at my face and gesturing towards his arm-band. I understand that he’s a medic of sorts. I again try to assure him, but he puts his finger over his mouth. I silencio. He takes my pulse, and holds his hand to my back and chest as I breathe deeply—which was hard, but only because of the moment. When he finishes he smiles and wipes the back of his hand across his forehead, as if to say “close call”. The brown faces continue with the back slaps and earnest smiles. I don’t get it. I don’t understand what just happened. I don’t comprehend how significant the moment was. I don’t know how often I’ll revisit that flash.

I still smoke cigarettes and flirt with girls and take two rolls and get upset about losing a two euro coin. I also proved nothing to myself. I didn’t step out in front of the bull to save a baby, I was fleeing. I put myself in a bull pen. I also wasn’t even hurt. My chest was swollen the next day, and there was a paper-cut below me nipple, but otherwise nothing but a story. My jacket, which is my only jacket, is burned—but that’s just cool. So far the only difference for me is that I’m thankful. I still get in bad moods and complain about stuff, but when I think about it, about Toro Grande, I can’t help but be authentically thankful. And though it shouldn’t take a flaming bull horn to the chest to be glad that we’re alive, sometimes it just does.

We were in Segorbe until morning and we watched the sunrise; first against the backs of the mountains, then against the tan houses higher on the hill, and finally on the cobblestones of the street.