This Blog Is Dead - Weep Ye Not

The writer of this blog is happily passed away at the age of 33 years and some very few days.

The imperative is to outlive him.

Where Cats are King & Memory is Life in Death

I raced here on a motorbike, the palms worn thin on my gloves. From riding about this city.

I find the gates locked, it’s half past six and the souls sleep at six – or wake up – or maybe there aren’t even any there – maybe it’s just that the gatekeeper clocks off at six to get home and live life, meet friends, or family – or nobody – maybe just to watch TV and eat something simple – cold meats and a round of bread with sharp edged wine that doesn’t make him wince because he’s used to it.

And so the gates are closed. There are three of them. The central and largest one, flanked on either side by two equally imposing, slightly less large, subordinate gates.

None is open. All three are chained and padlocked – the chain languishing loosely about the uprights – no one will force it – no one will question its authority.

For who wants to enter a cemetery before time? Who wants to be among the dead while the living are warm about us?

Not I it is true – for I am not finished living in this city of Barcelona, or any other for that matter – but I have been imperceptibly drawn here to squeeze between the chinks in the gate, to seep in like smoke or morning mist, or a wish – a desire to get through, get on.

The locks and chains restrain the physical life in us. They cannot restrain the other.

I am through now and up the hill past the monumental tombs that house the remains of the great and good and the great and bad, indiscriminately. We cannot tell them apart from this distance, for the engravings fade beautifully into stones that embrace their bevelled lettering like so much wording in sand. Some are renewed, embellished and give life to death, for a few more years until someone forgets, or remembers.

On up the hill through the streets of the dead who once occupied our city called Barcelona – so many bars, cafes, churches, squares, shops and so many lives. They lie on dead streets now, streets strewn with leaves when the sun punishes the trees rooted in the dry earth.

Cats lope here, hold the fort and look out across the port where cruise liners jostle with cargo ships all giving forth cargos that will spend money, cost money or make money. Money that will dictate the size of the tombs that will encase us when we die. The rich remain rich in death, in Barcelona.

Architects design palatial tombs for rich families just as they design palaces that decorate the city and catch our eye or block out the sun for us.

And here I find myself among the dead but I am as if alive. My memories are of the most irrelevant kind. The trivial, throw away moments that life is full of. The details overlooked by so much awareness of tomorrow and getting on and plans for this and plans for that.

My memories hang in time like balloons that the wind could easily swish away – but there is no wind here among the dead. And no tomorrow to build on today – to fill up my mind with new irrelevancies, new joys and simplicities which come to mind now that I have left them behind; the way the door jammed sometimes in the winter when the air was humid. The way the bus held us captive as if on a wave that was due to break, when it breaked.

Goodbye Barcelona that is alive – goodbye to beauty and to ugliness. Here I will stay squeezed in a niche on this hill above you. Where I can look down like the cats upon the living – and I wish that I were there with a pen, in a bar, with a glass of wine and a sensation of warmth and it being time to go home – or time for dinner, or time to live – or time to live.

Queue the Abstract

Reach

Defend

Act

Breath
Leave Space

What You Can See with a Pen

I had to buy a pen to make this worth while.

There’s nothing happening and there’s nobody around, except tourists and die-hards.

No fish – that’s the killer. No fishmongers, no crowd. No life, no smells, no locals. Why open if there’s nobody here. No fish on Monday.

The sound of an electric plane paring down wood is about all I can hear over the voice of the delivery man sitting next to me. He’ll never forget, he says. Something bad has happened. He’s taken a seat for a smoke and to talk of how Mondays are slow, how Mondays are always slow. Now he smokes and speaks of Christmas. His companion talks of family for Christmas – how to get paid double for working on feast days. That way he can make a little more, cash in hand, and juggle his days to see a little more family for Christmas.

The Boqueria without the hustle and bustle is like a film set before the stars arrive. All vans and hard work; preparation.

The barman has a lumpy scar on his face that runs from his right sideburn to his chin. It must have been quite an opening – perhaps someone with a knife wanted to see in – or wanted him to see in. He seems to have forgotten about it. It doesn’t tilt his face or make him twitch. He doesn’t raise a hand to touch it. It has become part of what he is – a turn he took that left a brand.

Miles of aisles run away from me in a grid that becomes a radial convergence of bare stainless steel benches at its heart. On any day but today fresh fish lie gaping, some slithering slightly, piles of crabs crack their exoskeletons at us as parents point them out to children.

The ladies call us guapo and reel us in with special offers and recommendations. They tell us how fresh it all is and turn a specimen over on the bench or laugh and joke while skinning a sole.

They are visited at election times and photographed when the man-on-the-street needs to be seen. Like a wet finger in the air, the good folk of the Boqueria are turned to for direction. The opinion of the masses distilled through the heat of conversation, so many mouths all achatter – ceaselessly selling and buying.

You can eat fresh fish at the bar. They carry it ten paces across the aisle from a stall and place it on the pan for one’s good self. Today the fish that lie exposed under angular glass bar-top vitrines are of dubious origin. The chicken, yellowing and pasty now, is not to be recommended. Perhaps an open minded foreigner might order it in an effort to get closer to the local customs.

But then the locals cannot always be relied on for their discerning taste. They may well be immune to death by poisoning or a dodgy stomach. Beware gullible traveller, while tonight you are big, tomorrow you may awake as if bound to the bed by a myriad of tiny cords.

The floor is strewn with cigarette butts and empty sachets that held single helpings of sugar. The clock is ticking and the bar staff are not inclined to sweep up what rubbish lies in the aisle – the public highway.

In the corner of my eye a gentleman with a blue sleeveless anorak orders a coke and ice in a long thin glass. He pours the coke slowly and watches the bubbles rise. He stops three quarter way and taps the base of the bottle against the glass – to make it fizz more, it seems. He pauses then, then waits a little more, then drinks.

The quirky ceremony of the individual. Signs of life indeed. What greater ceremony can there be?

Playing at Bridges

We’re standing on a bridge – six million car journeys of us are standing on the bridge between the Día de la Constitución and the Feast of the Purísima.

Some of us are lunching in restaurants. Yet more of us are eating fast food, sandwiches or hamburgers, while we trudge through the crowds of Christmas shoppers. They’re in from the provinces and the prices are twice what they’ll be in three weeks time. But hey we don’t mind, it’s Christmas – let’s not get rational about it.

It’s half past two and families are pouring in here for lunch. This place pays homage to the sea, to sailing and its literature. I see Moby Dick squeezed up beside a book about knots. The tables are small and round and covered in white table clothes that hang half way down to the ground.

The waiter is past middle age and wears a fleece jacket, a closely shaved grey hairstyle and glasses with very little frame – just bridge and arms.

It’s a motley crew, we’ve got; a Peruvian with a hat, some Germans with children and an old couple who only really came in because they wanted to use the toilet. That they have done and now they are sittings at a tiny table glancing at the menu.

There’s an elevator in the kitchen that takes the plates up and down, delivering and receiving. Right now it’s not in use; our fleeced waiter seems capable of working without it.

A bar runs above my head like a curtain rail in a shower. It originates in the wall on my right and carries many tiny light bulbs along its length till it runs to ground at the same height in the wall on my left. This is the sky, I believe.

You can believe your fancies.

We are on the bridge.

Letters for You, Letters for Me

Valle said it was for Valle. Nixon said it was for Victory. I said it was a line that reached a point of inflection and turned back almost upon itself.

Last night it was a strip of light that ran down a ceiling in a passage under a building beside a gig house where five bands played.

Inside there was a lot of smoke, smoking, cigarettes. Cigarettes that were loaned and borrowed. Cigarettes filled the air with a presence that only becomes evident this morning on the clothing sitting in a ball in the corner.

Young people, mostly men, bearded, crowded the floor, greeting each other and catching up.

The music obliged everyone to lean forward and shout into the listener’s ear while looking downward. This brought to the floor more attention than it merited. It was covered with large sheets of some rigid material, could have been plastic, could have been wood, or maybe metal. It was riveted to the floor rather like the stretched material that covers a sofa.

Amsterdam – Light in Early Winter

The lady sitting opposite Marta wore a black ensemble. A Dutch lady who entered and sat beside the low table that ran along the back wall and under the window. She leafed through a magazine, she focused on nothing, she was waiting.

The husband arrived, clad in a similarly black rig-out of equally understated elegance. She greeted him with a kiss. He leaned down to her as she sat on a velour cube-for-a-seat coloured green. She ordered his coffee and his apple tart with whipped cream. He perused the Sunday papers. He stood up now and then to search out a different paper at the other end of the long narrow along-the-wall table.

I moved to seat near theirs. A low cube, this one red, under the window where I could lean my elbows and cup my camera at the right height to photograph the bikes coming over the bridge before me.

The sun was golden, low and soft like a gift of dissolved summer in winter. It shone over there while over here we were in shade – what we gained was the picture of beauty on the other side.

I noticed how the cyclists were sun-lit before they reached the half way point on the bridge, then they fell into a lesser light that my camera called shadow. Bicycles swooped around to the right mostly, that was the way to the centre. Some were going back to where they had come from. Some ladies rode side-saddle on big old black bikes pedalled by fit young men in gabardines whose corners waved back at me. Some ladies rode bikes with boxes over the front wheel. The box was big enough and deep enough to carry a young child and some bags or two young children or many bags. Some cycled alone – all cycled slowly, leisurely. Nobody was in a rush, it was Sunday around noon.

A young lady walked out of the light and across the bridge. She wore a black coat over a floral winter dress. She wore boots with buckles on the heels to tighten the leather around the ankle – she didn’t use this feature – it was an aesthetic plus to break the monotony of the sheer vertical.

She moved in the viewfinder of my camera, appearing on the left in the light at the other side of the bridge. She moved, only the upper half of her, visible behind the bridge’s hump. Then she rose and moved to the centre, still illuminated, glowing at the edges. Behind her a street with greenery blotched. Rising above her left shoulder the golden window panes of narrow four-storeyed houses with decorative bottle-neck parapets and gables. The facades leaned out over the street like contained bulges.

Into the shade she moved towards me. I did not look at her, nor did I notice her looking at me. She moved further right and out of sight. The café door opened and in she walked. As if I had photographed enough I turned off my camera and sat back beside Marta.

Undoing her coat she greeted the couple, well-dressed in black. The door opened again and what must have been the son, came in, he too was in black, as sharp and presentable as his parents. He kissed his father and his mother and sat with his girlfriend. She kissed him full on the lips and smiled – they seemed new, to the parents in law at least.

All four talked politely. The father ate his apple tart which tasted of cinnamon. He cut it with the edge of a spoon and scooped cream onto it as he slid the slice off the plate and into his mouth. The mother sat, cross-legged towards the young couple. Her hand lay at ease on her right thigh. Her finger wore an engagement ring – one central diamond with two smaller ones on either side supporting it.

The cuff of her well-tailored jacket came down as far as her wrist. A few centimetres from the cuff an X was sewn in two long light blue stitches, each about a centimetre across. Above the first X was another, and a third completed the triad - the three Xs of Amsterdam. A declaration of identity, like wearing a heart on a sleeve.

It was time for us to go. We put our jackets on for it was chilly. The light still beamed on the other side of the road. And we walked towards it.

The Mystery Around Loving a Place

Nobody is alone in here.

Conversation is banging up against the walls like it’s trying to get out. The floor has scattered islands of saw dust to soak up the beer that’s splashed off the trays or the bar. It is, in fact, a practice that promotes sloth above cleanliness. And we buy it under the banner of tradition.

Bar Tomàs is an institution in Sarrià. The average person here is beautiful; even the ugly ones have dickied themselves up with flash clothes or the right creams.

Scarves are good if you’re a girl. If you’re a guy try a pair of black plastic-rimmed glasses and something with a collar. It doesn’t matter if it’s worn out as long as it cost a pretty penny when you bought it.

Enter young man who hasn’t shaved today, (or yesterday) but he looks good for it. He pulls his orange jumper down to meet his trousers just enough for us to notice his desirable black underwear with a thick branded elastic waistband. He doesn’t care for his appearance, he seems to be saying. Let’s not split hairs.

The toilet has double doors like a saloon. You can bash in and out of them and we can notice how you effortlessly hip you look in your studied easy gait. You can carry yourself back to your chair like you are walking across the living room floor. Make yourself at home, we’re at ease with the world.

None of the girls has messed around with their hair. No dies or bleaches or yelling reds. Quality cuts and more-than-daily grooming serves us up a sight to behold; a vision of healthy youthfulness, healthy roots and not a split end on a shapely head.

This is a place to meet after school on weekdays, after lunch on weekends and after work on days when you should have gone home earlier. Waxed jackets, Shoei helmets, slacks and loafers are post-work wear. If you’ve got a tie you can loosen it and unbutton the neck of your shirt. You can speak of deals or sport, last weekend in the Pyrenees or next week’s skiing if this damn warm spell would break and we’d get a decent snowfall. It’s nearly December for pity’s sake!

How can all this go on amidst such shabby surroundings? Here again Formica is king, a paint job from way back when the Olympics buoyed rejuvenation and above the bar a collection of clay wine dispensers that could do with a dusting. How can it be?

Perhaps it’s the bar staff aplenty. Their pseudo-uniform of black trousers, white shirt and navy tank top might be the draw. It might be how they participate in your evening, how they comment on any hint of personality you let slip as you sat down. They’ll remark on your clothing, your attitude, your order or your lack thereof. To be a waiter here you have to be happy, it seems. Or very sad. You have to be a character or we don’t want you. It may be that the place has made them what they are. They started average now they excel themselves in oddness, affability and the ability to slip into the slightest crack that appears in your conversation.

It’s bravas and beers I’m afraid. Don’t come the sophisticated here. You can have anchovies in brine or meatballs if you’re lucky. They could root out some cheese if you push for it or bread in a basket lined with a napkin. You’ll get a toothpick to lift what you bought from the plate to your mouth. No cutlery needed among friends. You can raise your hand and we’ll bring you more. You can step out of the way too, when we have to pass by from the back store to the kitchen with a plastic bin-full of potatoes hand cut into chip shapes. We are all friends here for there is no need to struggle or be aggressive. A joke can overcome a misunderstanding and a bill can be slashed if we like you.

The suits are arriving as the evening pushes on. The school girls with the scarves wrapped tight indoors are checking mobile phones and leaving. Till receipts are appearing on tables as those standing bear down on the seated.

A typical bar is Bar Tomàs. A mystery to a newcomer. The very salt of life to a regular.

Dirt, Death and a Bonny Baby

This evening on the Plaça de la Catedral I saw a man moving large green boxes around on a pallet truck.

Before I saw him behind it, I saw the green mass move, as if floating, between other boxes. It found a resting place in a line straight enough to delineate a passage.

In a few days these wooden boxes will open their upper halves on hinges and present themselves to the world as the Mercat de Santa Llúcia.

With Christmas in mind we’ll stock up on handcrafted earrings and necklaces. We’ll buy all the necessary accoutrements to build a crib even if we don’t believe. There’ll be running water and plenty of moss; great blankets of moss that we’ll clip with scissors or rip with our hands. A full complement of angels and animals will feature, huddled around a swaddled child that will not attract the attention of anyone but the faithful.

The others will muse at the caganet figure with his trousers about his ankles, his rear end cocked, depositing its refuse in the presence of the son of God.

The first moments of the physical intersection between God and our world are blessed with the defecating man whose form changes every year. Will he be a footballer or a politician? An actor or the Pope? Who knows but the factory that is currently busy pouring plastic into new moulds? When the market opens we’ll see who has won the honour and we’ll laugh like we did last year and the ones before that.

Tiós, logs with faces and forelegs will be bought in all sizes from miniature to mini-tree. The small ones grow, of course, into the big ones when you feed them. If you care for them during the weeks before Christmas they will swell with goodness which they’ll pour forth as presents on the night of the twenty fourth.

When the Tió is big and fat we’ll cover him in a blanket to keep him warm. We’ll sing songs to him to convince him that our love is not based wholly on want. Then we’ll beat him with sticks and order him to defecate, nay, shit, yes to shit, to shit presents!

Pregnant with goodness the Tió will offer up presents which parents will pull from under the rug. The children will be rewarded for their care of the Tió over so many weeks and the night will be a frenzy of playing, laughing and being together.

Of old the Tió was found in the forest where the family sought him out. He was then only a log but the children dressed him up and cared for him. After he had thanked his carers with presents he would be placed on the open fire where he would make the ultimate sacrifice; he would give his life to heat his friends.

In accordance with the inexorable cycle of life, the Tió’s ashes would be taken next day to the forest from whence he came. There they would be sprinkled on the ground, fertilising it, infusing it with life in the springtime when a new Tió would slowly rise from the ashes of his predecessor.

And in all of this Jesus is absent. He is in a manger on the shelf where the lights flash on and off and the recycled water runs ceaselessly in tiny mountain springs. Beside him the caganet we chose as our favourite, the figure that represents our year, fertilises the winter earth, helping to bring new life.

This tale is a beautiful yarn spun from the threads of nature and goodwill. This tale seeps into the fabric of life. In this tale light and running water nurture and bring joy to life.

Ah, but without dirt and death there would be no life at all.

Ah, but what of the bonny baby?