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runswithscissors


Thursday, October 20, 2005

The second week of my latest Spanish class binge is drawing to a close, a substantial part of that time has been spent quietly grappling with aspects of the language that must have been designed for the specific purpose of torturing honkies like myself. Exercises possibly concocted by direct descendants of Torquemada, endowed with a diabolical ability to cloud my feeble mind, get me doubting my ability to reason and understand. And even so, as I stumble along, desperately repeating my studies-related mantra ("Huh?") over and over, I'm also aware of the distance I've come, aware that I'm now capable of entertaining the Spaniards who know me with my version of their language at a much higher, much more impressive level than ever before. Which heartens me. It means I've finally reached the point where I can spend an hour or two in the company of, for instance, my friend Jorge and tell him with all sincerity, "¿Sabes? A veces me preocupas." ("You know, at times you worry me.")

We met up a couple of nights back, Jorge and me, at a beer/tapas joint a five minute walk from here. We shook hands, started catching up, he immediately diverted the conversation in the direction of his most heartfelt complaints (politics, etc.), providing me with yet another graphic reminder of why I do my level best to avoid wading into those waters: 'cause that kind of conversation makes me so godawfully unhappy. And as the talk began getting louder and hotter, me unsuccessfully trying to steer it back toward more benign chat, I mentioned that I genuinely hate getting embroiled in arguments like that. "We're not arguing," he responded. I checked my argument meter, the needle had clearly edged its way up into the red zone. "Of course we are," I said. "No, we're not," he replied, shaking his head. "We're just talking about things we feel differently about." Well, yes. War is peace. Freedom is slavery. What is the frequency, Kenneth?

I asked if we could change the subject, he heard me (being essentially a mensch), we switched to talking about women, a subject that, while at times raising more questions than it answers, makes us both happy. And that's all that counts.

On the walk home, through Madrid streets alive with nighttime activity, I got to thinking. That exchange with Jorge was not the first time in recent weeks that I've run into big differences of perception or perspective. Not by any stretch, a fact I note with a nervous attempt at a self-assured smile. Because while that kind of, er, collision festivity has popped up here and there, it's not like it's entirely unwelcome. It's not like it doesn't have its positive aspects. For one thing, when indulged in with the right people those strange passages don't leave wounds, nothing gets broken. Another good part: they get me looking at me, how I think, what I do -- a kind of system scan that, god knows, needs to be run on a regular basis.

There have been at least three occasions during the last month when I've found myself in situations with people I care for where our individual perceptions have been either at cross-purposes or seemingly rooted in frames of reference/perception at such goofily drastic variance that we might as well have been attempting to communicate from separate dimensions. Through null space. And, who knows, maybe we were, at least metaphorically. Maybe we are, all the time, all of us. (Or maybe not. Because, really, do I want to get into that kind of blathering, metaphysical demolition derby right now? Big, emphatic no.)

(Brief pause to pull self together: take deep breath, clear throat, adjust pants in exceedingly masculine fashion.)

It's packed with mysteries, this life. Which is in its favor. I'd much rather find myself puzzling over strange, confounding events than nodding off from ennui. On the other hand, sometimes enough's enough.

Like right about now.

Later.

**********

Light streaming above la Calle de Augusto Figueroa, Madrid:




Madrid, te quiero.

rws 1:51 PM [+]
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BLATHERINGS

August 2001
September 2001
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MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS

Personal History



Travels:
London '01
Pamplona
Italy '03
U.K. '03
Sevilla
Casablanca
Stoke-on-Trent
Barcelona
Québec/Ottawa
Boston/Lisbon/Madrid
Italy '04
Montréal
La Sierra

Events:
Madrid -- arrival
9/11
Emergency Room I
Holidays 2001
Holidays 2002
Holidays 2003
Holidays 2004
Holidays 2005
A neighbor's passing
Madrid -- March 11 bombings
  and aftermath
Emergency Room II
Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon
Madrid -- Royal Wedding
The DELE exam

Excerpts from GONE, a novel:
Chapter 1 (complete)
Chapter 6 (complete)
Chapter 8 (excerpt)
Chapter 9 (excerpt)
Chapter 9 (excerpt)

Screenplay excerpt:
BURBANK SHRUGGED

Short stories:
Murphy's Wife
Another Autumn
Queja de Una Hermanastra
  Muy Conocida

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OTHER SOURCES OF WHOLESOME ENTERTAINMENT

People/Weblogs:
dooce
foxvox
fudge it
fear not
rebekka
bookslut
802online
idle words
madhaiku
wockerjabby
grow-a-brain
digital camel
letting me be
kung fu grippe
franklin avenue
fanatical apathy
baghdad burning
the happy booker
mimi smartypants
between the miles
just a hippie gypsy
tomato can brushes
playing with my food
sugar mountain farm

Good Clean Fun:
gizmodo
futurismic
postsecret
dave barry
human clock
mcsweeney's
spaceweather
book-a-minute
internet archive
self-portrait day
my cat hates you
out of context quotes
surrealist compliment
  generator
strindberg and helium

Makin' Musical Whoopee:
muxtape
soma fm
pandora
last fm

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ABOUT RWS/CONTACT





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