Crickets are not dreams

The other day, Jenny (a beauty of the gypsy kind) told us about a dream she had. Deep within her sleep she sat to listen of a myth of old, where dreams were confused for insects. The story, with only a tiny bit of my embroidery, went like this.

Hidden between mountains lay an ancient village, which´s rural calm was one day interrupted by a sudden storm. Of course, in midst of nature, such phenomenon was not uncommon, but this was not just any storm, for between the drops of rain that fell, also came crickets. The villagers, amazed, stepped out of their houses to look upon the scene of water and crickets singing upon dust and stone. As they watched the miracle happen, they all began to make wishes. Each green creature became a hope, each tiny body a yearning. The storm, of course, did not last forever, and as the water drained away only the crickets were left, a flutter of legs and wings across the earth. And as spring blooms out of a rainy season, so did the desires that were wished upon the crickets of storm. One by one, hopes and miracles were granted out of rain and thin, fragile legs that skipped mystic symbols into the dirt. With each dream that came to life so did the conviction that the crickets which had rained upon the village had come from the Gods, that their being and race was holy, sacred. The myth grew with time and the telling of tongues, collecting awe and worship, until crickets were revered as Demi Gods. But this idea did not last forever. As the dream ended, Jenny was told of an old, wise monk which looked upon the story and did not awe, did not worship. Instead he said,

Crickets are not dreams.

The truth was that the crickets had fallen from the cages where they had been kept in, hanging from roof edges and front porches as the heavy rain of the storm battered their wooden frames.

The moral of the story, Jenny said, was that one must never assume that just because two events are coincided, one must cause the other. In real life this is an idea I believe in, and which is even studied in social psychology. Just cause violent children have watched violent TV does not mean that the latter caused the former. Maybe violent kids look for violent things to watch, and all that.
But, as she explained her conclusions and moved on, I was left a little unsatisfied; something was missing, something was wrong. After all, the wishes of the villagers had come true. How was that explained, even if the crickets were not those made of dreams?
So, I added a little more to the story. Sometimes people need crickets to fulfill their dreams. Not their magic or power, but simply the cricket: the illusion of a miracle, of something beautiful and capable of making your wishes come true. We are in control of our desires, dreams, and how they are realized. Once in a while, though, we need a cricket to help us along. We must always remember, though,
Crickets are not dreams.
We are.

And yes, ok, I have to admit that I have totally upped the cheese since I came back. Maybe a cynical post for next time? Some doom and gloom for dinner?
Or maybe I don´t care that I´ve gone soft. Vaka by Sigur Ros is in the air…
What a beautiful sound.

Brink

I love living my life in moments. Few, half made plans, there more for the anticipation (your biggest fears lie in anticipation, but so can great pleasures).
Waking up on a Saturday morning at one, opening the window to cold, fresh air and a cascade of Spanish sun, curling up on my chair with some green tea, a blanket, and a light tasting cigarette and reading Bad Science as I listen to Ratatat and Eliza Doolittle. Hello World, my dreams were fragmented and thrilling tonight, but this is sweet and perfect on my tongue.
This is a comforting and fitting aftermath to a Friday nighs, which always have a special air to them. The working week has ended, and here starts a small capsule of calm and tender days or intense action, apart and away from the five days preceding them.

Yesterday night my flatmates, Jenny and me watched ´Run Lola Run´ and ´The Dreamers´ in the dark. Two very good films, each in their own, different ways. We ended up in Sara´s room, a forest of green, an echo of a far away patch of Amazon, with its warm, humid air and corners filled with leaves. LauraJennySaraandMe sprawled across her warm bed, and in the gloom Sara and I lit up cigarettes as we listened to soft, sad music, telling us through sounds and rough noises of other lives, other pains, other dreams lived, other moments and people cherished. When I closed my eyes and took a drag the world beyond my eyelids would light up for a moment before falling to darkness once again. I lay there until the music ended, Sara´s head on my lap, Jenny against my arm and shoulder. Together, out at sea in that deep, dark music, salt and sand just a tremble away.

It is already turning out to be a good year. And so it should, judging by the way it ended, for these Christmas holidays have been one of the best. New Year´s swim was, once again, different from any other year. Despite being surrounded by sunshine filled days, the last of the year was gloomy and rainy and cold, but man did we make the most of it. At Guille´s suggestion (mi hermano fiel) we stripped to our bathing suits in the car, and rode around like that, grinning out of the windows, my uncle, at the wheel, donned in sunglasses as if it were the middle of summer instead of a dreary December day. When he parked the car we all sprinted out together like mad people towards the sea, as if we just couldn’t live another day without its waves, without its cold, wet touch. Laughing hysterically we threw ourselves in the freezing water- 3 drips (11 for Guille, he ´feels´ a different number each year) and then out, towards towels and then the most ridiculous bikini shoot in the history of photography. That night we had our typical multi-platter family dinner in El Club Social (The Sunday paella room, really) before we all went to mine and with the aid of Belen and my pre-made playlist of old, lets do the twist, music, we all danced longer than any of the previous years. When the adults were worn out and us younger generation simply active and tipsy we collapsed in my room and Guille played us his music on the delicious new speakers I bought not too long ago as we smoked cigarettes and a hookah and talked deep into the night. Those moments are so intimate- Paloma hugging me closely, I love you so much, as we understood and came together, the sound waves around us making our tongues and thoughts in tune with each other, so that we all sung together silently; family, family.

Then, of course, there was the night at the beginning of January. We had taken to playing Mario and Wii Party every night; watered down competitiveness and howling laughter through hours on end. That night, however, after the play, Sara, Guille and me spontaneously decided to take the shrooms we had in store. And so we did. We took my speakers to Sara´s house, far away from adult ears, set up the candles and the noise and chewed on the earthy, disgusting mushrooms as we lay about the living room with Lola and Paloma, our little cousins, which I love all the more for how they understand us, for their open minds. Not taken by the either extreme prejudicing or holification of drugs; that they are simply something one can do if they are right minded, if they understand that it is about enjoying a moment, a different experience, that it is not a loss of control in the worst sense of the word. That it is like going to see the amazing beauty of a slightly dangerous pocket of the word, and that if you are good-vibed and sensible then, its gonna be ok. And, oh God, was it ok. Everything was so beautiful. I cannot, and don´t really want to, explain the full experience of that night. It was simply one of the best I have ever had. Not that I have not have innumerous other amazing nights, but this was just one of them. All my thoughts we so clear and wonderful, they all rang without a doubt, were fact of life, of how everything fit together, of how things were, were. Everything was love and harmony, the chaos turned into the colours, the music was alive. Guille and I connected in a way we had never before- barriers down, we finally saw, understood. All basic space and other minds and art and mi familia fiel. I couldn´t stop shaking my hands to the beat of the music (if you´re fond of sand dunes, and salty air) And my lips wouldn´t stop speaking beautiful words, immense ideas compressed into sounds- at the brink, the brink of things. Sara clung to me and cried, howled, all through Loveology. We were all so happy and together and intimate in that little space that I still wonder if time stopped for us and left parts of us there forever, in that beautiful word. When it dawned we stepped outside and were met with an abandoned world. The red sky, the scraps of wood on the dusty floor, the shapes and colours of everything so clear, cutting, stunning. We walked in that world that had ended for us, survivors (Supervidores…super…vidores…Supervidores!), not being able to feel even the slightest bit alone. In the end we all hugged so hard that my glasses fogged up from the warmth of us, and as we parted and each went to our own house Guille hugged me again, true siblings at last, the most precious thing I took from the whole experience. And it didn´t even end there. For hours after everything was more beautiful, vivid, alive, and when I closed my eyes all I could see was a shifting, wonderland world of colours filled with snails and mushrooms and purple trees. And just like that, with Jeremy curled beside me, and my mind alive with beauty, the night ended.

When I look back on my life, these are the things I will remember. Not the amiable, friendly stretch of days which were good, but uniform. My life will be made longer by these few, intense moments, for 6 months seems much more if filled with glassfuls of memorable instances, instead of a calm sea of same. So that is what I have prescribed myself. Longs walks to see new parts of the city. Plays and concerts and foreign movies. Moments with tea and ash and the fresh taste of orange between my teeth. And the best of company.

Happy new year, everybody. Make the most of it- only you can. :)