a moment of here

Outside, it is pouring. I can hear the rain tap against my window, seeking a fraction of my warmth. The wind howls as it drowns. It is quiet and still in the house, and my room wraps around me, settling softly over bared skin. Blood Bank murmurs out of my laptop, mixing with the tepid, dim lighting. My hair is wild around my face, framing my world in feathers of black. My eyes burn around the edges, suggesting sleep. I am tired, content...submerged. Deep within my world of caramel light and night music and heavy eyelashes.

I feel at home.

Playlist I: Wolves

Catpower: Werewolf
Bon Iver: Wolves (Act I & II)
Sea Wolf: You’re a Wolf
Lady of the Sunshine: The Wolf
Wolf’s Rain: Paradiso
Sufjan Stevens: Romulus

Living With Animals

At the start of this day, which turned out to be a good one, I said ‘I’ll make note of what happens today and post it in a blog so that people know what goes on in the wonder, never never, always land of El Campo. So here it goes:

I was most charmingly woken up by someone beating up my locked-from-the-inside, bedroom door.

“It’s three-thirty! You’re parents are gone! The food is ready! I’ve made the food!” Grandma’s voice belted straight through my head. Laura rolled and grumbled in the bed pressed against mine.

“Ok! Thanks, Grandma!” I shouted back, stuffing my head in the pillow. Jeremy, stretched against my bare leg, rubbed against it slightly.

“The food is ready! It’s in the kitchen!”

“Ok Grandma! Thanks! Be out soon!”

“It’s Spaghetti. I made Spaghetti!”

“Thanks!”

“Your parents will be back later! It’s three-th-”

“THANKS GRANDMA I’LL BE OUT IN A MINUTE!!!” I bellowed, smashing my face against the bed. There was a moment’s pause before her steps shuffled away. I sighed in relief, and then started giggling incredulously.

After zombie-ing around, getting ready for the world, I went to the kitchen to be instructed on how to finish making the Spaghetti, to be explained how it was made in the first place, what ingredients it had, where my parents were, what they were doing, and finally that I should make a salad. Did I like cucumbers? Yes. Because my brother liked them. So did I. I didn’t have to put them in if I didn’t want to. I did, I liked them. I could put tomatoes instead. Ok, Grandma. I love you.

After making the salad (tomatoes, cucumber, carrots, vinegar vinegar vinegar) and feeding Yuka, I ventured into the blinding, scorching sunlight. Said hi to the dogs and spent the pseudo-morning swimming and sunbathing blearily, reading a total of about 3 Lolita pages, too hot to concentrate for long. After my brain was sufficiently fried, and I supposed that strutting around topless whilst workers were nearby would give Grandma (the other one, mother’s side) a heart-attack, I gathered my things and made myself lunch. Ate it alone, since brother and sister were still in bed. It was yummy, and I loved how my fingertips smelt like tomatoes even after being in the pool so long. I think I’m gonna make myself so many (tomato tomato tomato) salads during the course of summer that I’m going to end up smelling (if you get close enough, stranger) in that strangely sweet, ripe, red way forever.

I ambled back to the pool where I settled back with Lolita, in the shade this time. The flies weren’t driving me to homicide, so I stayed until my eyes were sleepy with Vladimir’s embroidered words, my legs hot as Yera (dog) jumped on the recliner with me. Determined to blink away the laziness, I ambled to the kitchen to make myself some tea and set out the painting things on the table under the wide porch. Settling down, I sipped the rejuvenating drink whilst eyeing the half-done painting critically. Traced with a finger the face of the boy who was looking in a surprised manner at the grass growing from his head. Sketched were his massive earphones, the birds and contorted woman who blared from out of them. I re-touched a couple of things with the pencil before sinking into mixing colours (this green, that) and watering them into the paper. When I noticed it was already eight I packed my things up, cleaning the paint-dabbled plates with my fingers and put everything away diligently. Noticing everybody was busy with something or other (Sims, Pikmin, Bass practice, late siestas) I grabbed my camera and decided to take a walk alone with the dogs, needing a bit of space. As I whistled for the mutts and walked away, however, Pedro (Pedrito: 11, curiously smart, funny, rascallish) spotted me and asked if he could come along. Surprisingly unbothered I assented, waited until he pulled his trousers on and set off. It was an interesting walk- the same languorous sunset, the same sights, but Pedrito rattled on about different types of fish and hunting (an inward, memory-induced wince) and the morals of fishing and Where To Get Good Fish. The dogs ran around us, yapping after uncatchable rabbits and nudging my hand or the lens of my crouched camera as they walked past. Hot from the walk, I slipped into the pool as Pedrito ambled off. I only meant to cool down but stayed until the stars peeked out, swimming up and down, up and down, completely lost in thought, until it was ten. Got out, dreaming of hot-then-cold showers and the food that followed. After I had lazed a bit in the TV room, watching someone play Pikmin and laughing with the cousins, I made myself a pizza and put it in the oven. As I stepped out of the kitchen, Paloma told me Laura was asking for me. “Where?” “In Guille’s room.” “What for?” “Dunno. Said that they’re playing something you might like.” Attention caught, I peeked into the softly lit room Guille, Laura and Sara were in, two with acoustic guitars, Laura with electric bass.

“What’s up?”

“We’re playing Bon Iver songs,” Laura replied. My face lit up. “Ok!” Run to check up on the pizza, and then spent the next hour or so, maybe (time is hard to keep track of in those kinds of moments) playing around with songs. Laura on rumbling bass, Guille on acoustic guitar, Sara on the whining, beautiful harmonica, me singing,

Come on skinny love, just last the year

Pour a little salt we were never hee-e-ere
Mah-mymy, mymymy, my, my
Staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer

Easy to deepen and melt my voice against his wolf one.

Grandma had to go to bed then, so we retired to the New Club Nintendo where I mostly lay sprawled on the couch, my legs resting over one person or another, reading Lolita. I took a couple of tea breaks. A step outside to the cold air, and would wheel around the dogs on the bike, loving the night, jasmine air on my face.

Night time: novels, and films, and eulogies; I would write anything for you.

I would sip my tea, sitting on the steps outside the kitchen, Luna at my side, reading calmly. The cricket and frog filled silence was a big change from the chaotic guitar-hero, pikmin, John Butler Trio noise of Club Nintendo. On the second ‘break’, I cycled to the tractor shed, and lay on my back near it, staring at the stars a while, thinking about nothing important. About the stars, mostly, and this and that, and that. And poor (oh God) Lo-lee-ta. Or something like that.

When it was late enough, and some people had gone to bed, I played Guitar Hero until my hand could not un-clench from the ‘claw’ position, and then Guille came in and said that his A Level grades had just come through- 3 Bs and an A. Oh My God, Yes! Hugs, Hugs, Well Done! (relief, relief). He was still worried, though, because he needed two Bs and an A, and the A was in Spanish. Would it count? We told him not to be silly, why wouldn’t it? A little later it came through that, yes, he was in Cardiff. (More hugs).

Laura and I, the only ones left in Club Nintendo at seven in the morning, collected ourselves and went to clean the kitchen. We were just wiping down when Guille hops through the door and says,

“You guys want to go on an adventure?” We looked at each other.

“An adventure?”

“It’s kind of risky.”

“Risky?”

“Come on.”

We followed him out, barefoot, like characters on a game as he trotted funnily away, leading us to his risky adventure. We rounded a tree and there was the car, turned on, humming and rumbling. A smile split my face and Laura and I scrambled in the back. The air conditioning was on full-blast. Artificial Artic Black Interior. Giggling, we put on the seat belts, and I clutched Guille’s head-rest as we ambled out of the front gate and unto the road.

“No cars from the right!”

“No cars from the left!”

We were off.

Guille swerved madly on the road, jokingly shouting “OH SHIT!” as we laughed madly in the back. Classical FM was on full volume in some mad contrast with out hysterical laughter and curses and thrills as we sped down the road. My heart was swimming at full speed. I couldn’t stop laughing. Dawn was beautiful.

One illegal turn and two past cars later, we were back, stumbling out of the car (which we parked differently at my suggestion, just for kicks), still giggling, adrenalin-filled. Celebration not over, we went back to Club Nintendo to play Soul Calibur. I watched Guille beat the shit out of Laura despite it always being a close call, laughing loudly at their antics.

It was around nine when we got back home, settled into bed, Laura and I still joking as we lay next to each other, Jeremy between us. It was with a screamed BUENAS NOCHES! And a smile on my face that I finally drifted off to collect some energy to start another day.

:)

Fly Guts Are Brown

I think there is something seriously wrong with me. Maybe I’ve gotten some kind of mutant version of Bird Flu or Swine Flu or whatever disease the media is freaking out about- I don’t know. The point is that I’ve started saying “Ouchie” instead of “Fuck, ow!” I know. It’s disgusting. I’ve asked to be put down, but doctors keep babbling on about some Hippocratic Oath nonsense. Pssht.

Ah, man, haven’t you missed me? Sure you have, come on. Surely that bewildered dizziness felt at having lost so many minutes of your life in such a useless manner after reading one of my blog posts must be terribly endearing. Why, I can see the half-amused grimace on your face right now. Partly because I am intuitive, but mostly because I’ve got cameras all over your room. :D

Moving swiftly on- me having not updated in so long is good. Kind of. You can actually tell a lot about a person’s mood through their blog updating tendencies if you know them semi-well. It also helps to have my natural stalker tendencies. For example, I can tell when Freddie is in an emotion struggle when she doesn’t update. On the contrary, Cecil updates more frequently when she is overwhelmed with emotion and needs an outlet. Lyle is a sharer; he tends to update when he is inspired by certain things, be it experiences or curiosities he stumbled upon in the web. Tori...seems to not update when she’s busy or has nothing to share. Which seems pretty obvious for all of us, but let’s not be pedantic! (Def: Pe.dan.tic. adj.: Being a twat.) As to me, I tend to update when I’m more bored than not, or guilt moves me to annoyance. (Thus why I update so seldom: Procrastination entertains boredom, and my guilt is a complete and utter sloth.)

Actually, maybe I should stop wasting cyberspace my talking about how I don’t update whilst I do so. Actually, whilst unpacking the boxes which arrived a few days ago from Jersey (a sort of sick feeling caused by watching tea filled cups which belong to some other life, here) I found a diary I thought I had lost, from when I was sixteen (I am tempted to burn it. 16 did not bode well with my complexion, I have to say) and saw that the grand majority of the entries begin with “oh man, its been ages since I last updated! Sorry!”. I had to sigh about the things that never change.

Aah, man, it seems I have been here for such a long time, and yet in some ways as if summer has only just started. I still remember the first few days of my stay, though, when I was the only one of my cousins in the farm. I spent my days with animals until I smelt and felt and vaguely looked (maybe a little around the eyes) like one of the dogs. I feel sorry for people who don’t (or haven’t got the chance to) appreciate animals beyond the ‘pet’ stage. Many people like their pets, and enjoy their company, but don’t really appreciate it fully: don’t love their expressions, their charisma, their individual personalities and the tranquillity that can be gained through a bond with an animal, as strange as that may sound to some of you (and as normal to others). I lot can be said about a person by observing how they handle an animal. Psychopaths, for example, often show the first show signs of ‘cruelty’ (which would maybe be better termed as ‘emotional indifference’) by hurting animals. Even in psychologically stable people (I use that term loosely!)- take my parents for example. They treat Yuka (the dog) like their treat me. Hah! Ok that sounds vaguely wrong, but what I mean is that their comportment with her can be mirrored with their relationship with me. My Dad’s obsession with a clear domineering, He-Male, King the Third of the World role and my mother’s incessant force-feeding of affection in various healthy and unhealthy manners has been prominent in my life. I have, thus far, remained (mostly) unscarred by their parenting skills. Though maybe after re-reading what I have written so far I may have to re-evaluate certain key points of my psych.

After people started arriving at the farm it was a slow, rumbling start into pseudo-normality. Too many things have changed since the beginning of last Summer in this Family, and recuperation has been slow, and I could feel it palpably, and didn’t handle it well, I must admit now. My desperate attempts to fix some of the war wounds (still being attacked and smarting) only resulted in making a mess of the situation. In retrospect, though, I’m glad it happened. Finally, at 19 years of age, Marina Bas has finally learnt that, sometimes, she has to Shut Her Mouth. The truth of the matter is (I say this casually and with resigned humour) that that insistent trait of mine, which has been brusquely termed by a lot (a lot) of people as ‘opinionated’ or as an inability to be in the wrong, was not at all correctly identified. Ok, so maybe not ‘not at all’ but mostly incorrect, yes. Everybody has opinions, and I freely (and almost often) admit when mine are wrong (my God if this Summer hasn’t been about that). But you see, reader of mine, (who is probably wondering why oh why I am talking about this when I should be hyper on talk about summer anecdotes) the thing is that I actually made myself that way. Moving around as I have, I had the privilege of meeting a lot of people, and going through the process people only go through one or twice, (meeting a group of friends which you attach to by proximity, and then navigating to those you have most in common with) too many times to count. Therefore I saw more than my share of fakeness. Childish fickleness; the words you flippantly say about friends behind backs, and the opinions you omit or change in order to appear more likeable to a particular crowd. At a very tender and small-numbered age, I realised that I was in a situation in which I would become very susceptible to become incredibly fake. To be integrated into so many different cultures and clicks and so on, it would be easy to construct a face for each occasion, for each group. A set of opinions, of likes and dislikes, or favourite colours and movies, for each group of people. (In Manhattan she is the pale-skinned, hamster-faced girl who likes winter most of all, and would not be afraid of lakes or ice, and would be positively disgusted at keeping dead squirrels for pets. In Venezula she’s warmer, and laughs quietly, even though the noise is contradicted with a toss of the head. She likes spring now, and worms and sloths, and can star-jump, eat lollipops and not get brain freeze, and not enjoy the feel of the burning fake grass as she runs bare-footed. In London she never ties her jumpers around her waist boyishly, and does more than sit on manly, dictionary-lifting laps; plays football, and lets the boys lift her up and stuff her in bins without scratching at their mouths and necks. And in Jersey she is a rolled-skirt girl, with a penchant for illegal make-up and coquettish earrings, and most definitely does not wear clothes pegs in her hair, or daisies in her buttons, or entertains ideas of being any sort of liquefied particle, shelled insect, or sea-fond animal.) And maybe that would start out in order to make life easy- but in the end I was scared (excuse my use of clichés) of losing myself. Of being so incredibly mouldable that I would be nothing: I would be Ditto, Flubber. I thought that the only way to remedy this would be to make my opinions so clear that my personality could not be shaken; to build myself up (even at that age) with words. A Bit Unhealthy. But with time I have come to realise that Less Is More and that it’s just...not necessary anymore.
...Ah, the wonders of self-psycho-analysing. I hope you thoroughly enjoyed that (I’m sure) invigorating view into my pokemon-evolution self.

But well, despite any obligatory learning processes, the summer has had very good moments. I think I will have to remember these months through details (moments, expressions, eyes, and grains of salt). The protected feeling of sitting outside all night (from 1 to 7) with the dogs by my side. Or the walks with the mutts, long and always marked by that vibrant last hour of the sun. That first night in La Manga; going to the beach in the dark, and having sister and the howling, hooting, degausser songs. The days peppered with concerts (“It’s the spice of my life-I couldn’t live without them!”)

There was the Antony and the Johnson concert in Cardiff, which was brilliant; the lighting and the trembling voice. Though at the start, after the first song (no introduction, just a dark walk to each instrument, and the beginnings of a thrum) there was this perfect, prefect moment when the piano slowly died out and the lights were absent and blue, and suddenly some numb-minded, twat-faced woman shouts, “When do we get to see your face?!” Why!? Why would someone do that! Yagh! Rawr! Instinct to Kill: Powered Up. Resident Evil roundhouse kick to the exploding head.
Then Madeleine Peyroux, who was honey-voiced brilliance. At one point her guitar whined at not being tuned properly and she stopped, looked down and said “I think my guitar is trying to tell me something.” That woman is very beautiful.
Then Yann Tiersen which’s French-shaped mouth I want to kiss fully. Not much more I can say about him that sister hasn’t in her last blog (go, hunt down).
Then Vetusta Morla, who had the Reverted Mob Effect on us. Everybody knew every sinuous guitar cord and every poetry-laced lyric, making our dance and voice compete with the singer’s own. Energetic, consuming...grr <3

Of course, there are the shiver moments, which makes me appreciate the kind of person who, when is shown a song, stays silent until even the last thread-of-note disappears to comment. Even better, when the comment is a closing of eyes and a hummmm of satisfaction. Lick your lips. The innumerable moments of loud laughter with sister (the epic remote control toss between feet and hand, or the perfect moment not to kiss, or the “*fart*, that was poor.” “You’re poor.” “I’m Elvis!” “...As I said, real poor in sanity.” “...One for the money, two for the show!”) or getting The Creeps (Def: the.creeps, intr.v : heebie-jeebie aftershock from girly outburst) after screeching and standing on lifted surfaces after being, A) attacked by demented, shooting-star beetles or, B) spotting mutant spider crawling near us.

And more things, and more, but this blog post is so long I’m pretty sure its reaching the legal limit for ‘tedious’, so I better stop. Maybe more soon with music donations.
Humm hum hum. :)

and the sea is just a wetter version of the skies

Summer is here!!
This is, by a million tanned miles, my favourite season. The sun peals all excess layers from me; they curl away like old wallpaper to leave the original colour behind, still fresh and slightly wet, as if just painted. The skin under my skin is blue and if you press against it closely you can smell the sea.
How can I describe summer?
Summer is freckles across my nose. It is watching my skin paint itself in the tribal markings of sunlight; a bikini of paleness against stark bronze. The only measure of time is seeing the contrast between colours grow deeper. It is long minutes of laughter, and the softest, dreamiest naps. It is taking walks with the mutts and the sunsets. It is watching sunrises by reservoirs. It is the taste of chlorine and the slap of volleyballs over invisible nets. It is the smudge of acrylics on fingers and wrists, the snap of the camera shutter opening and closing, the click of letters settling into virtual ink. It is the flies, and the heavy, heavy heat. It is sand between toes and under nails, blistering skin, matted hair, and the glorious shower that makes it melt all away. It is family. It is safety in its most basic and primitive sense. It is sleeping in twos. It is living in packs. It is long novels and swinging hammocks. It is the absence of mornings and the deepest of relationships with the night. It is calluses from game controllers and ping-pong rackets. It is jellyfish, surfing fish, and the most beautiful sound in the world. It is concerts in warm air. It is dancing until there is no more dark. It is the sort of calm that has no compromises or adverse effects. It is music, and thunderstorms, and the kind of memories that fade into warmer hues, softening around the edges and gathering affection instead of dust with the passage of time.

{}

In our bedroom, after the war

Greeting, earthlings!

I’m avoiding revision again. Crazy, that.

Anyway, I come bearing gifts. Not a particularly good one...I just thought it would be nice to set up a blog with bits and bobs of my writing, in case anybody is interested! Nothing long (not that I ever manage to extend my creative writing into anything that falls under the category of ‘long’, heh) primarily because Html kills me slowly. So probably most of it will be poetry or random sentences I sluggishly write in the book by my bedside when I’m trying to fall asleep.

By all means criticise it if you want, since making things public holds no feel of grandiosity or ideals of talent beyond that which practice implicitly shapes.

Also, I have to add that the people in my writings are not me. Most of my writings, as random and incomprehensible as they may seem, haha, probably have a whole backdrop. I won’t write any sort of clarifications alongside them but if you want to know what the hell I’m on about, ask :).

That’s about it! I have to go revise biology now. As if today’s exam wasn’t awful enough. Though to be honest one of the questions just has to take the prize:

If a young girl is experiencing jealousy towards her father, Psychoanalytic theorists would believe it to be:

a)chest-hair jealousy

b)muscle jealousy

c) maturity jealousy

d)penis jealousy

....Yeah. LOL. Take a wild guess at which it actually is. I read the first option and had to bite my lip so hard not to burst out laughing. I can just totally see that in comic form.

The shiny, rainbow chest hair of win!

LOL ok, I went to deviantart to see if I could spot a picture that mirrored what I was imagening and found Sir Gayer and Mr Gaylord on the way.

what the freaking fuck man.

LOOOL.

ah the internet. a wonderful source of culture and other such chiselled things.

:D