California, I love you.

California, I love you, You are all green and brown and purple, dotted hillsides and trees feathered out like amazing plumage. Up in Humboldt, strangely friendly hippies come out of their houses and RVs with stocky babies, full of good tidings and dark warnings.

Mishka rubs her muzzle in the dark soil and bounds with incredible buoyancy over fallen branches. Later, she will curl up on a mossy stump, nestled between the redwoods, and take a nap, looking royal and exhausted. We will dig a fire pit and burn dry wood and pine cones, their sap sizzling as they glow black, red, white, and then dissipate into the crisp air.

We've brought too much food, not enough booze, and wonder if we should ration our beer or start drinking cinnamon whiskey at dusk. The sky goes cold and we hang a bright lantern, drinking around the fire, and in the damp morning we drink watery coffee and seek out little patches of sunlight to defrost in. I change my clothes on a sunny hill and marvel at the soft sun all across my bare shoulders.

After scrambling eggs on a wobbling single burner, we gather bread and water and blankets and go tromping down a trail marked with big arrows made of sticks on the forest floor. The ground is soft with layers of fallen leaves and crackling twigs. We weave between skinny saplings and dark madrones, climbing beneath fallen trunks, and above branches that grasp at our ankles.

Up on the hilltop we spread our blanket in a sunny clearing and sprawl and explore and snack. Mishka disappears into the rustling bushes and emerges grinning and dirty, her long tongue lolling. We paint each others' faces, laying on our backs with our eyes closed, soft strokes turning us vibrant blue purple, yellow and red, stark white, smooth brown.

The sun droops, shadows stretching long across the yellow-brown leaves, and we gather up and head back down the hill, scattered in clumps. When we arrive at our spot, aglow with late afternoon sunshine, the rickety log benches, the still fire pit, our green and blue tents side by side, the little table perched in the shade, if feels strangely familiar. We spread out, building a fire, reading, gathering bread and pesto, slicing tomatoes. We cook paninis in a cast iron fireplace press, and eat them in little shared pieces. They are sticky and melty, warm and crisp.

California, I love you, and the golden singing treetops high up and green, while down below we crouch low to the cold packed dirt, listening to the crackle and hiss of the fire. The pine cones hold on tight, and the ashes come floating down, elusive and white.

I love the cold apricot ale at dusk, and layers of smoke-smelling clothing, bundled in hats and thick socks. California, I love you, and the promise of spring and the promise of pasta. I love you and the painted faces of my friends, wavering behind a plume of smoke across the fire, and my lover, with his hands on my shoulders, and my dog, gnawing on pine cones and bringing us twisted sticks, triumphant.

Springtime Drizzle

Caffeine, dried up in the back part of my skull and aching in my teeth. The sky is heavy and full, pregnant with all our discontent, will all our folded back dreams seeping up through the exhausted skin of the clouds. When will it all open up and come crashing back down upon our insubstantial shoulders?

In the springtime drizzle, we curl and unfurl, hoping to be entered by sunshine, to be kissed by indulgent bees. What else is in the wind? Our desires are too big to be buried beneath soil, we come creeping out onto the surface, tendrils needy as infants. Show me the white underbelly. Show me the ways in which you are not a tree, after all, but a small thing, a forgotten acorn.

Despite wet socks and unrestful sleep, we come out thirsty, bones cracking for more— keep shifting the earth from one place to the next, keeping sifting through the dust of me for some little treasure, amongst the moldy tea bags, the greenish orange peels, and the slick avocado pits. Somewhere is a soul, I think, waiting to be loosened with the curious fingers of summer, with the feverish call of the road.

photo credit: aussiegall via photopin cc

Solipsism and Interconnectivity

I.

I’m trying to say that nothing feels real. Moments come and go and fade away. Memories seem like dreams, I can almost see myself in them, like a different person. Sometimes reality even seems implausible, sometimes while sitting, looking, talking, I feel the world tilt back away from me, glaze over like a dream. I’m never quite certain if I’m awake.

I’m trying to say that I feel sometimes incredibly disconnected from all that is around me, as if I’m floating through life without touching it. People sometimes seem impossibly distant, impossibly different creatures. I don’t understand the things they do, or why we all behave in this kind of shadowy secret way, as if we don’t have innards. I wonder why it’s not okay to show more. I feel like words are often inadequate for expression—thoughts are so much more than words, they are multi-dimensional experiences that mix up bodily feelings, senses of all types, goals, dreams, hopes, conjectures, memories… And I’m often frustrated by my inability to access the experience of others, and by my inability to share myself, my experience, my thoughts, my inner world, with others. Misunderstanding is a human condition. When a series of events produces a reaction within me, I want it to be touched and held and seen and understood and validated by others. That rarely happens. This makes me feel dismissive. This makes me feel achy and uncomfortable in my own skin.

There is some comfort, but also horror in the idea of solipsism. I am the only thing, just one long thought process blossoming into a complicated, colorful word within which I’ve built a place for a concept of self. Sometimes time feels jumpy, like I’m being plopped down into different settings and manipulated into interacting with varied, imaginative stimuli, just to produce feeling, to test the limits of the imagination, the boundaries of the big, sustained thought process which is the only thing, ever.

Sometimes I feel that way, but more often I guess I feel like we are isolated little units, blundering into each other with no hope of communication. Not only is language inadequate, it’s incredibly personal. A word is a only a symbol, attached to which are a series of experiences, and these will never, ever match up. Maybe this isn’t solipsism in a pure sense, but I think it relates to Gorgias’ idea that even if something exists, and even if something could be known about it, knowledge can’t be communicated to others.

II.

Despite all of this, though, communication does occur, at least to some to immeasurable degree. We can relate symptoms of physical pain, for example, and diagnose illness. We can meet for lunch at 2 ‘o clock. We can even listen to the same haunted notes and cry. And sometimes, quite often, despite the fact that we try so hard to present an outer idea of self and conceal our inner world, the inner world leaks out, and we study each others actions, personalities, histories, and come up with sometimes accurate conclusions. How?

All this makes me feel the opposite of alone; it makes me feel intrinsically connected to everything. It makes me feel as if we are not individual selves but fleshy pieces of a huge, breathing organism, something universal and communicative. Perhaps words are inadequate, but we seem to be communicating through out pores and veins, through our irises and our nerves.

These are the things I’m trying to say. These are the sensations I’m trying to convey. The words are inadequate, but I hope I am transmitting something.

Disclaimer of sorts: I know pretty much nothing about solipsism or Gorgias. These are just thoughts that I had brewing in me today, after watching Solipsist and reading a very small bit about the idea of solipsism. They are also probably influenced by reading excerpts of Emerson's essays on Nature.

Things I'm Thinking About at One O'Clock

The flimsy nature of reality and the white border that forms around all physical objects when your eyes go slack; the universal nature of facial expressions; how little these two hours, these four years matter; about how it would be to sit in fifty your old skin, adjusting my scarf and glasses, and talking into a roomful of bland, open faces; crooked teeth and evolution; my blue mug and caffeine; a pair of eyes that caught mine; my missing planner.

Mellow Music, Caves, and Cake

Fridays are like a sigh of relief, I woke up and cleaned, tromped down the hill for fried rice supplies, sweated back up the hill and took a long shower. Sometime around ten Borja came home with a few friends, we’d met at our last party, we all crammed into the kitchen and they taught me silly phrases and peeled potatoes while I boiled rice and chopped garlic. I was chopping carrots when more friends came, we exchanged polite kisses and I started defrosted the peas. When Sydney and Michelle arrived with lentils I was just finishing up the fried rice, and Borja and Marc were frying potatoes. We made vodka and pineapple juice drinks and sat in the living room and they passed around the guitar and the girls sang, at first quiet, but sweet and soulful, and the boys sang jubilant songs in Spanish, and we all clapped along and complained about being hungry and smoked spliffs.  When Borja finished the tortilla española we all cheered and dug in, piling our plates with tender tortilla, with flavorful lentils dabbed with plain yogurt, with rice slathered in Sriracha. We refilled our drinks, the boys passed around a bottle of wine, and Michelle rubbed my belly. We smoked more. The music started back up, stronger voices, boozy brave, I couldn’t stop smiling, even the little fragments of uncertain song were perfect. By three in the morning we’d switched to recorded music, played Al Green and watched videos of an a cappella choir singing a Prodigy song, and Syd, Michelle and I went to the kitchen to make cookies. They must have thought we were crazy, in fact they told us so, found us closed in the kitchen dancing to California Dreaming while nibbling on cookie dough. When the cookies were done Borja’s friends took over the kitchen, boiling marijuana and butter, to use for a cake the next day. Then we curled up on the couches, finished off the vodka and melted into the cushions.

The next day we all woke up far too early, got the cake in the oven and sipped on tea. Everyone went home to collect things and I puttered around the house and realized I’d somehow lost my phone. Mierda. A good half an hour or so late, Borja and I eventually made our way down to Plaza Nueva to meet up with more people and some pretty adorable puppies. We weren’t the latest, though, so we sat in the plaza and sipped on litros until everyone else gathered, and then we wandered our way in fluctuating clumps up past the Alhambra, past the cemetery and over into a part of town I’d never seen before, with it’s own cave community. We climbed a narrow little path up to a cave with the bare bones of mattress spring frame for a door, and sat around a little table on couch cushions and opened up the weed cake and dug in.

One of the cave’s residents gave me a tour; the cave was dark and musky and he kept telling me that it was normally cleaner, but it had a hard cement floor, lumpy rounded while walls, and shadowy little chambers where beds were set up. It had a communal space with a couch, which is also where one of the more roving members of the household slept, and a little kitchen area, where they place goals under a grate to cook stovetop and have a little brick oven. No lights, no running water, just pure scavenging self sufficiency, a good deal of neighborly good will, and a lot of dumpster diving (although I have to say, I like that in Spanish they refer to it as reciclando, or recycling.)

Back outside, everyone was figuring out money stuff, and someone went on a drug run and came back with mushrooms and acid, which was promptly divided up and eaten. The sun was getting low, and a chill set in, so someone suggested we all go get some firewood, and we tromped back down the hill, to a wooded area where the boys sawed big pieces of fallen trees and the girls gathered piles of sticks for kindling. When we got back it was just about sunset, so we dropped the wood in piles and went around the other side of the hill to watch the sun slink away beneath the city silhouette. The drugs were started to kick in and everyone was smiling until they thought their faces would fall off. I can’t laugh anymore, I just can’t, they kept saying, laughing. When we got back to the cave, they’d already started a fire.

I spent the night with a soft, mellow buzz, taking little drags off spliffs that came my way, sipping on the bottles of wine and beer. I didn’t expect to be there so long, but night fell and we huddled around the fire, ducked from the smoke and chatted. A little puppy would climb over us, let me pull her into my lap and sit like a person and doze off for a little, and then would go and bark at the bigger dogs. At some point someone pulled out a bunch of chicken and spiced and grilled it and passed it around with bread, later someone handed around pears and tangerines and we all nibbled on them. One of the girls, Eva, tried my Burts Bees chapstick and took to calling it el chicle que no es chicle, the gum that isn’t gum, made everyone try it and kept asking for more every half an hour or so. Everyone was nice in an easy natural way, no one stopped conversations abruptly to ask me if I understood, and it’s better that way. I didn’t talk much, but I never do in situations where I know so few people, but it was fine, I let the language wash over me like smoke, took in what I could and chatted to the people nearest to me. It’s funny how uncomfortable you can make someone by trying too hard to make them comfortable, but no one did that to me. Midnight came and went and it wasn’t until sometime after one thirty that we began stirring, some people headed for the bars, others for home. Borja and I walked home with one of the girls, whose name escapes me (too many new names in one night…) since we realized we were nearly neighbors. On the walk home it suddenly occurred to me how little I’d slept and how little I’d eaten—about three hours of sleep the night before and I was running on weed cake and pieces of shared fruit and bread—but the hungry exhaustion that settled in my bones was satisfying. I love Granada.

Moving, Mexican Food and Movies

Dear everyone, I'm moving! I found a house in the upper Albaycín with a big kitchen, an awesome basement, a huge terrace with a beautiful view of the entire city, with a cat and a dog and housemates that seem super chill. I didn't wanna write about it until I knew for sure what was going on but it looks like next week I'll be signing my new contract and I've already spoken to my current landlord so it looks like things are working out! Gypsy King and I will have an adorable new house and he'll be able to go outside again and things!

My soon-to-be neighborhood!

In other news, here is a list of weekend wonders:

Thursday night: Mexican sleepover! Leah made Spanish rice and grilled veggies, Hannah made salsa, Mauna made guacamole, Courtney brought tortillas and cheese and I brought chipotle refried beans and we smoked a few spliffs and ate until we were dying and watched American Psycho.

Friday morning we woke up late but went to Monachil and hiked and ate sandwiches, then I came home, did some knitting and was generally lazy and cozy. I talked to Casey and he got:

There's not really a reason behind this... Mostly, it was just the correct size and we have sweet teeth.

Saturday morning I did more knitting and lazing and then met up with Christina, who lives in the lower Albaycín and we decided to take a walk and see if I could find my new neighborhood by foot (since I'd only bussed there before.) We ended up getting turned around but it was all kinds of adventurous fun. We ended up hiking up this big hill where tons of ghetto cave houses and lean-to type homes were set up, and we eventually came to this old city wall and realized we were on the wrong side of it and decided to climb it, since it was crumbling in such a way that created all kinds of foot and hand holds. Sitting on top of the wall was so exhilarating and it had an amazing view. We found my neighborhood, too!

Saturday night I met up with Courtney and we went and hung out with Christina at Laurel's and then went to Felipe's and watched a Spanish movie called Noviembre, which was a bit difficult to understand but really interesting.

Today is the epitome of a lazy Sunday. I was going to go see the theater again, but Valentina isn't in tonight's show, so the cold won and I stayed home and drank tea, instead. This weather may mean significantly less interesting things to talk about, because I really can't be bothered to leave the house when I'm cold...

Monachil

We woke up late, of course. The blinds shut tightly, the room was dark as a warm tomb, I stretched my legs. The sky was a rippling velvet, brightest blue and blackest gray, mist and heat. We sat at the back of the bus.

The pueblo was sleepy silent, I looked into the river and saw a bright circus poster slumped against the rocks, water rushing over the elephants and tigers, over the big bold letters. It was a sad thing to see, but the mountains reached up all around us, and there was a bright blue café with a chalkboard menu, and we walked with brisk legs and the air felt clean.

My boots felt solid on the dirt pathways, we walked past neat little farms and beautiful persimmon trees, we came upon a shed of goats. There was a dog by the gate, he saw us and leaned against it—he looked like a sad tiger. When I came up to him he stood up and pawed at the gate with one hefty paw, he stood up on his back feet and shoved his nose through the bars. He was soft between the ears and his eyes were dark and sweet.

As we climbed the hills we were thankful for the chill. We came upon a square government building and a block of cement with three different sides, all strange and wonderful street art. We passed more persimmon trees and a man drove by on a motorcycle with a black lamb draped across his lap. It lifted its head to look at us as they passed. Up high in the hills were lonely crumbling buildings, they looked beautiful and serious.

We climbed cement slab steps, nervously crossed swaying suspension bridges and waddled under big overhanging stones along the river. The water looked clean, blue and cold. We found two big stones in a little cave of foliage and sat to eat sandwiches and mandarins and pastries and then the sky opened up, just a little, and sprinkled us with water, and we cleaned up quickly and scrambled back along with big overhanging stones, the belly of the mountain.

When we came back to the swaying bridge, it was raining on the rock climbers, it was raining on their black dog. When we came to the stone steps, we parted ways and wound around and up in an unexpected spurt of chilly exhilaration. We scrambled up a jagged path and reached a little plateau, we raised our arms and looked up into the gray sky and down at the glistening tree tops, we looked down at that fiery autumnal red, at green and green and green. From up top we could see two little figures huddled together beneath a tree. We whooped and waved, and they danced back up at us.

We made a circle of warm bodies and with stiff fingers lit a sturdy little spliff, warmed our lungs with the tang of tobacco and weed. I clambered down the hill with it perched between my lips, exhaled into the sky and felt my own skin with a definite lucidity as the little drips of water slid down my nose. 


The way back is always quicker. We were back on the sidewalk, we walked past the circus poster, dissolving in the wet, we stood at the bus stop with our hands in our pockets.

A Slacker's Summary

Okay, okay, I'm a slacker. It seems the longer I go without writing, the harder it is to get myself to sit down and write. I guess this is logical, the longer I wait, the more I have to try and recount, and that can be laborious. I'm not going to try and sit down and give a day-by-day account of the last week; that's just crazy talk.

The first week of school was pretty crazy, but not horrible. People here are nice, I've chatted with a good handful of Spaniards and an even greater handful of guiris (foreigners) alike. I'm not sure if I've mentioned this before, but apparently Granada is the number one destination for European students that travel abroad. There are a fucking LOT of foreigners. One one hand it's great; professors know that it's quite probable that half of the class will be composed of non-native speakers, everyone's a little confused like you, and everyone wants to meet people and party. On the other hand, it's sucks; everyone speaks fucking English. Everyone. Speaking Spanish and being spoken to in Spanish is an act of willpower. I want to learn, dammit! But when someone speaks to you in English that is better than your Spanish, it makes it pretty hard. Plus, two of my classes are in English, but I am hoping to drop one of them.

As far as classes go, well, I haven't even been able to go to two of them still! And those two classes happen to be Spanish language lit classes, which is really what I need in my schedule! I've already more or less decided to drop one class: Literary Languages and Audiovisual Languages. The subject sounds fascinating, and I would love to take that class in English but the prof asked us all about our background in Audiovisual studies and even mentioned that it was probably not the best choice for foreign students... I think I'd be a lot more willing to confront the challenging subject matter if it hadn't been for the discouraging comment about foreigners... Oh well.

My North American Lit class is a little boring, but at least I get to read fiction. The other English class actually seems a little more challenging (the English teaching one) but the subject matter is obviously a lot more removed from what I'm actually majoring in, so I may let it go. My Spanish Pragmatics class was actually really fascinating, though. It seems simultaneously challenging and doable, and the professor was this awesome energetic young woman who seemed really supportive of foreigners. She had us read paragraphs from a text out loud, which was embarrassing, but I felt like there was a nice sense of humor in the room that diffused a lot of the discomfort.

As far as weekend activities go, this was another good one. One of my compañeros del programma, Dan, celebrated his birthday Friday by having a nighttime potluck in a park, and there was a really good turn out of people, food and booze. I also introduced my housemate Lucas to some of my friends, and he really hit it off with one of Laurel and Amber's housemates, who is also French. Later that night I ended up going to a party at this house known as la Terraza (because it had a big ass terrace) with the two French boys, another of their housemates, this really sweet German kid named Leon, Felix, from EAP and one of his housemates, as well. I spent my hungover Saturday at Laurel and Amber's, which was a lot of lazy fun, because everyone in that house is awesome.

That night, instead of going out, I crashed at Christina's so that we could wake up early and meet up with a friend she made at school, this guy Karim who speaks almost perfect English and it's pretty much one of the sweetest people you will meet, to drive to a nearby village called Monachil where we went for a hike with his girlfriend, their ADORABLE dog and a little group of friends through los Cahorros. It was BEAUTIFUL, truly. I really hope my dad comes and visits because he would have loved it; kind of dry, rocky terrain that winds around a clear little river with cold, fresh water... There were a lot of rock climbers around, too. The dog was the huge slobbery Great Dane mix, Leto, who was only nine months old but fairly mellow. It was a really nice day; we got home in the evening exhausted and sweaty but contented.

In other news, I'm slowly beginning to get back to work for Barber Insurance, aaand, I figured out my (horrible) scanner, so all my Fujifilm instant photos are on the interwebs! For example:

Our little group of picnicers!

Week two of school officially begins in an hour, so I'm off! I promise to (try) and be less of a slacker this week.