A soul that leaks

It is raining softly in Spain, and the sound of it calls for the warmest of cigarettes, for the songs of Bon Iver, for in every one of them something is falling; be it rain, or snow, or spirits. I looked out at the gloom and the puddles that glowed in the night, and thought about how people have souls that leak. How it is inevitable, in our skin and in our bones, that we are unable to be satisfied for long. How we can all find something that will fill us for a while, but we soon realize that the feeling of it drips away until we need something more. A new rush, a new touch, a new sense of life. Maybe that´s what evolution meant for us, what our society is built on. Because I often get the sense that, to be happy, we need the sense of going forward. Need more knowledge, to feel more, to be more.

A week ago I had one of those days when I just feel sad, those kind of days that everybody gets, when it´s suddenly apparent that all the fresh air and the pretty trees where fine a moment ago, but you´ve just realized you´re lost, lost in the forest and you don´t know how you´re going to get out. And suddenly you´re scared because you realize that it´s not that you want to escape the jungle, it´s just that you want a patch that you like (at least for a little while) and that´s just…so much harder to find. I stopped and looked and all I saw was that my soul had finished leaking, and there just wasn´t enough pouring in anymore. And I guess I learnt a lot from what was left inside me, because all I felt was alone.

And doesn´t that tell you so much of how we work?

But Sara was there, she is always there these days, and it was perfect because when I started crying, harder, harder than I have in a long while (“Because, God, why can´t I stop my soul from leaking so quickly, I´m scared because if this doesn´t make me happy, and that doesn´t make me happy, then what, where, is it me, is it everything else) she didn´t really say anything to fix anything, she didn´t give me a solution, didn´t even really try and point me in the right direction. She just understood. She just hugged me and got it and I went to my room and just…felt better. And I can´t quite find a word to describe how that felt like. It was amazing, but not in the way that fireworks and concerts and loud laughter is amazing. It was amazing like a kiss at the corner of your lips can be amazing, how a look, or one squeeze of your fingers, or a soft, soft summer breeze can be amazing.

That whole kind of mood seeped into the day after that when we went to see Matt Elliot live. He is a man made of ghosts. The sounds he makes are haunted, are ragged and raw and as animalistic as pain and lust and hunger. The very force of him is overwhelming. Sara and I stepped out of the concert so subdued we didn´t say a word to each other the rest of the night except for good night. No other sound could be made after him.

It was just that beautiful.

Quietly, I have to admit that there is a little awkwardness in my fingers as I type this, because I´ve never really written a real-life sad moment in the blog before. But I think sometimes it´s nice to peek into the softer, the bluer side of people. It makes them seem more human, somehow. More touchable. More here.

Regardless, the truth is that I´m really quite happy at the moment. This week in El Campo has been quite, quite perfect. Perfect because nothing BIG has happened. The weather has been dull and our eyes sleepy, and we have fallen into our most natural routine. Fur and walks and siestas during the day time, and long, long nights all crumpled and stretched out on my bed, listening to music on my silky speakers, having those long conversations that I feed my leaking soul like desert water. It was exactly what I needed. Those moments that you sometimes see in movies that make you feel warm and soft inside, only that they´re now, right here; all of us outside under the stars, laughing and counting comets, the music around us, always.

Those are the kinds of things that make me find myself in the jungle.

I am happy. But, still, there is a line in Song to a Siren that always, always makes the air stutter inside my lungs. That always makes my eyes narrow slightly with the shadow of some soft pain. The strange, awkward phrase always hits that inch too close to home.

I am as puzzled as the oyster,

I am as troubled as the tide.

all tongues and brain

I was just thinking about how I liked that the expression “over and over” repeats “over” twice, instead of it being something like “multioverover”. How the words themselves reflected what they try to express. Which in turn reminded me of the book “1984”, which is the scariest thing I´ve ever read. The book that birthed the idea of Big Brother, about a society watched, and guarded, and controlled, in all the ways possible to imagine. There was a conversation in the book which described how the government intended to produce a new and revised dictionary which´s aim was to reduce human language as much as possible, to the most basic of words. Eradicating adjectives, expressions, synonyms, in order to contain not only the capability of speech, but of thought. Our capacity to form capable opinions, and the arguments to support these, would be cut down to what they gave us, and at the same time any rebel would be quick to catch because, necessarily, they would have to search for those absent syllables in order to find what was missing in that freedom deprived world. The very idea of it almost made me sicker than that scene in “American Psycho” in which he kills the beggar and dog, almost making me stop reading because it was so wrong, so wretched, and at the same time so real, with that dispassionate and aloof tone that Bret Easton Elis uses so well to describe desolate souls and nauseating actions. But I´m getting distracted again by my own course of though…again :). We can call it “scenic route writing”. (Ps. There´s a cat meowing non stop outside, with that kind of low tone that makes me think it´s stuck somewhere, possibly (judging by where the sound is coming from) the roof of the building opposite mine, which limits my cat-hero abilities considerably. Damn, where is a radioactive spider when you need it!?)

Back to point A. The whole idea of language being able to control us only highlighted how important it is to human kind, an idea I thought about a lot when having lectures related to language acquisition last year. They showed us studies, with subjects as young as fetuses and infants (by measuring how their sucking and heart rates altered when noticing changes in their environment, and so being able to see what changes they could actually perceive and, more interestingly, which changes they were most interested in, judging by how long the heart rate/sucking acceleration lasted.). These studies revealed our preference to complex sonorous stimuli, our categorical perception, which leads us to selective recognition of phonemes in any language to start off with, and then specialize in our own. We also studied how vulnerable the development of full language capabilities are to damage; how the scars that early trauma can cause in language development can be deep and ugly. Our brain needs nurture and time to settle fully in the intricacies of language- we have built networks around, with, the use of it. Even deaf children with speaking parents develop crude sign language (much like a “normal” baby sounds out different sounds before forming words) even if they don´t have specific models to copy, but instead simply out of an innate necessity to communicate.
From our fist breath, do we understand how important words are? The shape of our thoughts, the vessel of the meaning in our actions, our friendships, our need for clear declarations of love (or hate, or any other emotion).
Of course, I´m not saying that pictures can´t speak, or actions express. There are moments made for silence (that night made of thunder). And yet I can still taste how important words are, how, at times, necessary. I can lose myself in visions, and find myself in moments, but words are a search, a struggle, a means of release, art, beauty, and the energy they create is necessary for my existence. Some days they are what let me breathe…
I think about that study in which keeping a diary lead to a lighter soul. About that paper suggesting Schizophrenia might be the price we pay for what language puts our brain through…

Wow, I really didn´t mean to go on about the whole psychology thing so long. I just meant to breeze over a few points, but that just came rushing out. Glad I remember so much of it though, considering how shitty my memory is!

Jesus, I can´t believe I´m awake. I know I´m repeating myself, but there really is something about nighttime that does something to me. For the last three days I´ve been completely exhausted for practically the whole day, due to my change in placement location, which, due to the commute (walking + train = 1.4 hours one way) I have to wake up at six which, if you know me, is seriously not something that comes natural to my being. Therefore, in theory, when nighttime comes I should jump into bed with a whoop of relief and fall asleep as my head hits the pillow. Instead, however, I force myself to bed at 10 30 (ok, with my laptop to watch one episode of internet TV, but as the Softer World author says, “Whenever people judge me for how much of my time I spend watching TV and horror movies I wonder if they've ever even been happy ever. EVER”) and, tossing and turning and sleeping horribly I may clonk out way past twelve because it´s like my body just can´t accept that it´s sleeping the whole night through instead of, you know, a bit of night and most of the morning. And, therefore, even though, being 5.05 am, I´ve been awake almost 24 hours, I am still writing. Definitely editing and posting this the day after tomorrow, on Saturday.

Which is my cue to leave, even though blog post madness has hit me hard. (Haha, that reminds me about the paper I read today about addiction to social networks. Maybe that can be the sequel. The Social Network: The Addiction. Muahaha, first step to getting rich, fast: Be Me :P)
And with that overgrown parenthesis filled with typical Marina nonsense, I´m off to...I would say sleep but why would I lie? Listening to music and staring into space it is.
Phantogram: When I´m Small, and then maybe a little bit of Massive Attack: Paradise Circus...then I´m smelling some Beck: Everybody´s gotta learn sometime, coming my way. Then to finish on a high note, Wax Tailor: Que Sera, and for a low note, Tim Buckley: Song to the Siren. Actually, I think I´ll start with that and work my way up.
Join me :)

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. :)

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.

:)