Okay, so I am a bit embarrassed because this is like the fifth ode to Lorca I have posted on here. But sometimes you need obsessions. They are something through which you can channel your passion.
True patriots always die because it is dangerous to love something so easily set on fire.
(Love is something easily set on fire.)
Oh, Lorca, you loved your country, but your country gored you on the horns of its bulls, of its sacred beasts of cruel geometry, who knew nothing of the ritual that created them.
Can’t you love yourself and love your country and love the country that exists inside yourself? Can’t you love the dirt and love the water and love the wind that leaves new pollen in the streets? Can’t you love a man and love the church and love the candles that turn into burning pillars?
Passion is more than its fiery culmination. Lorca’s Spain was more than its murder.
I sit cross-legged in the raucous silence of the moment, contorted into a preschool nightmare of tangled thoughts and tangled feet.
There is no freedom in meditation. It’s just a window you can't fit through.
When I was little, I was told to watch for broken glass as I ran barefoot along the beach. No one warns me to be careful now, because It would be a grace to cut myself on the sharp edges of the world, to open my lungs and scream.
I’m scared, you know?
I’m scared I’m going to sit in this bed forever until I run out of words, until I run out of air, until my blood grows tired of the same old racetrack. my belly is full of things I have filled it with, not God, as I like to pretend.
It’s full of stale springs and half-heard hymns and the vestiges of virginity. It’s full of artichokes and quesadillas and black rice pudding and pasta.
people who read too much have opinions on Henry Kissenger
my friends tease me for my long rants on Ceaușescu and Communism and how if it wasn’t for Climate Change Norway’s management of its oil reserves would be Close to Commendable.
I pretend to know right from wrong and the xy shape of history.
but people who read enough/ and enough is often way more than too much/ don’t have opinions on Henry Kissinger/ because the more numbers you know the harder math gets/ and Henry Kissinger is just a math problem/ an undefined ratio/ with genocide on the top/ and the Cold War on the bottom/ but is there really any way to know what American bombs destroyed in Cambodia/ or whether a theoretical armageddon helped to deter an actual one?
I fall asleep reading about duende, reading, radiating duende. That’s what Lorca’s poetry does: it causes my grandmother’s pitched voice to tremble with a terrible softness, like the moon liquified and stored in a jar. God, I’ve used the word duende, the second most sacred name, so many times lately. I’ve used it to explain everything that can’t be explained. I hope I haven't cheapened it with desire.
The begonias are burning, I’m imagining them burning. They are pinker than my sun singed skin, so pink they are almost red. For a moment I trick myself into believing that the Spanish street names are more than an echo, that the baked brown hills of Santa Barbara are the Andalusian mountains Lorca rhapsodies over. As I trot down to the dust strangled creek, I feel a piercing, euphoric scream rising in my chest: Seville to wound! Cordoba to die in!
Last night, I went down to the water just before it got dark. I sat on the seawall with my knees close to my chest and smelled the salt. The water was grey, but it reflected the burnished purple of the sky. How many times have I skinned my knees on those rocks? How many times have I broken myself open and gotten sand in my wounds? I feel rugged and ripe. I suppose that is what comes from living in a beautiful town situated on a crumbling cliffside.
I was a Child, the piano an escalator. we danced, the stairs and I, shackled to heaven’s baroque architecture, to the Music’s swollen joints. our Knees creaked, lamenting: we’re as old as Mozart, and he only lasted a couple of decades before he expired into History.
I was Scared of being a Child.
the Sun hurt my eyes. the dew took too long to evaporate. I hated the fact that I had never tasted coffee. I told my mother that I wanted granola instead of Peanut Butter Puffin Puffs.
the Day was a Cathedral.
us Children built a society, a city in the Rose bushes. we bent the brambles into arches that could support the weight of our Symmetry. we made our world into something delicate. and our Bones were stretched, de-calcified.
Cycling along the flat cement at sunset, we hear the frog song. It swells, candid and all-consuming. It’s like drinking plain mint tea on a bitter evening. But winter is gone now, we must find our sharpness elsewhere.
Even the Douglas firs have become dry in this new heat. Even after a rainstorm, I see them struggling to breathe. My home is supposed to become a utopia before it dies. How many years do we have again? How many years do I have to live with unnaturally ripe strawberries and swans that have decided to stay for winter?