Last night, just a few miles from the site of the real-life event that inspires the piece, we attended a performance of “Bodas de Sangre” (Blood Wedding) by Frederico Garcia Lorca. Thank goodness I had read the play in translation last year as, naturally, the performance was in Spanish. Lorca, famous for his collaboration with Dali and other surreal artists of the 1920’sand 1930’s was assassinated in 1936. His body has never been found. The play, one of his most famous, is a strange mixture of melodrama and poetry. I enjoyed the performance very much, although what marked the evening more for me was a magical incident that took place before we even entered the theatre.
The performance was advertised on a play-bill stuck up on a kiosk in San Jose where we are staying. It was to take place in Nijar, a hill town about twenty-five kilometres away. We had visited before so we had no doubts about finding the place but once there we had no idea where the theatre was. The town is a maze of steep and narrow streets and the prospect of navigating them blindly in hopes of finding the venue was not a happy one. Fortunately, Joe has the habit of asking directions, sometimes of the most unlikely sources. Yesterday he chose to ask a schoolboy of about ten or eleven years of age. The kid was rolling down a steep street on a scooter and came to a swerving stop when Joe hailed him. He had a head of black curls and an engaging smile.
“Sure, I know where it is. You have to turn around and…oh, never mind. I’ll show you the way. Follow me.” As he sped off he hailed someone called Fatima and yelled out in something that certainly was not Spanish. Off we went! He zoomed down curved and steep narrow streets gliding over speed bumps with both feet on the scooter. We followed behind, our hearts in our mouths. As one point a woman in a hijab called out to him but with a wave of his hand and a few words he dismissed her and carried on leading us – two old strangers – to our destination. Now and then he would look back to be sure we were still with him and with a nod of his head urge us on. After a tight squeeze with an oncoming car at an impossibly sharp turn we emerged at the parking lot of a large modern theatre.
Our personal Hermes who had flown ahead of us as our guide turned out to be called Said. He accepted a few coins with surprise and profuse thanks in what Joe tells me was extremely polite and beautiful Spanish. I think I will remember this “overture” to the play long after the words of Lorca have faded from memory
This may not be your idea of a botanical garden but it is one of my favorites. It is a shot of a rather bare spot in the garden in Rodalquilar in the province of Andalucia in Southern Spain. This pomegranate tree had only a few fruits left and those had been ravaged by the wild birds who live here. It was quiet, sunny and cool in the garden today. We were the only visitors, in fact! A kind attendant told us that the staff had been obliged to chip in to repair the tiller. Seems the Spanish burocracy is so dense that it just seemed easier to make a personal sacrifice than to wrestle with various levels of government. Contacts in the renown Kew Gardens of London are very interested in this unique garden which features native plants from the semi-desert environment. Their offer to translate all the information panels lies mouldering on the desk of a fonctionaire somewhere in the maze of Spanish offices that approve such projects.
On a happier note, today in the garden we saw many happy insects, bees among them ravishing some lovely yellow flowers. Young olive trees nodded benignly at us, knowing they would outlive us by a century or so. On a neighbouring hill we could see the deserted gold mine. Rodalquilar is no longer a mining village but a haven for artists and writers. It is almost time for almonds trees to bloom and I am sure such a sight is more inspiring than any gold mine.
Spanish hunters buy these birds to use as live lures for wild partridge. We saw lots of them in clean, well-watered cages today. It seemed a kind of mean way to fool the birds. I know, we use duck decoys and moose calls to fool game into getting shot but this seems particularly gruesome to me. There were about thirty birds priced anywhere from €3 to €6 depending on the type of bird . ( They all looked the same to me)
I could only imagine the procedure in the field as the captive bird calls and his wild brothers and sisters approach. What happens to him at the end of hunting season, I wonder?
In the University Metro Station
an accordion player.
The young feet hurrying back and forth
in rapid rhythm.
A few minutes before the hour
a crescendo. The crush of crowds
hurrying to class.
No coin, no glance.
With his strong left arm
the big instrument, black with mother of pearl, keys and buttons.
He pulls it open. He tilts back, body rocking on the chair.
A pleated fan curving, the angle always changing
as the tunes, well-known and loved
or strange, some from his own past, pour forth in an echoing stream.
The weight on his legs and the straps
over his shoulders
tire him at the end of the day.
He plays waltzes and tangos, show tunes and marches.
When some old man or woman loiters beside him
smiling as he nods, he wonders
what the coin will be.
Some of the angels like to come down and inhabit our strange doll-like images. They like hanging out on Christmas trees. These were glad to be gathered together in a group on this tree. They could chat when the house was quiet.
“Next time I’d like to hang around a lighthouse like the one in the picture beside us,” said the golden angel at the very top of the tree. “I’d like to protect ships at sea and maybe visit the lighthouse keeper and his family.”
“How old-fashioned you are,” snorted the little paper angel of brown and red. “Don’t you know the lighthouses are controlled by computer these days?”
“Well then, I could hang around with the computer operators and make sure they didn’t fall asleep or make any mistakes. Somebody has to work on Christmas Day.” retorted the golden angel.
“Don’t quarrel,” whispered the little white fabric angel. “That’s not what we came here for. There’ll be enough squabbling when the presents are opened. I hope they don’t have any uncles who get into the brandy before they pour it over the pudding. Last year an uncle Jack set fire to the tablecloth in the house where I was.”
The little paper angel hung her head and thought how much quieter it was in the green forest where the Christmas tree had been cut. She decided to inspire the oldest child to water the tree. It was quite hot and dry in the house and the tree was starting to droop.
The tree was patient and silent. He had been proud and happy when the ornaments had been hung on his cool branches but as the days wore on he became weaker and his forest spirit began to fade. He liked to remember how birds and insects had found refuge in his dark recesses. Now, snowmen and crimson bells took their places. In the evening the family switched on the sparkling lights but often after a few moments of admiring him they left the fancy front room and went away to look at television. Truth to tell he did not mind. He was used to dark and quiet.
The angels and the tree sat in quiet companionship. It was Christmas Eve. They enjoyed a few moments of silent fellowship. Soon the company would arrive and sit at the big table spread with a white cloth. In a few days the images of angels would be put away in a cardboard box. The angel spirits would depart to circle the earth and try to do good. The tree would be put out on the street to be carried away. It was just during these few days at the darkest period of the year that the angel and tree spirits came close to human families. A few people, especially children noticed and were inspired by the strange company. These were the ones who loved Christmas and kept on loving it even when they grew up.
City and country are different after all. The woods are full of caribou moss and brown oak leaves somehow soft and inviting. Although winter is surely coming there is a comfort in fall. The earth tones the greys, creams, browns are kind to our eyes. The forest smells of earth and there is a sense of settling down, of turning away from the teeming life that was the forest in summer. Of course, life will carry on in winter. Plenty of birds, and mammals will adapt and live but plant life will sleep, will die, will live in another way.
The city garden is still green, even bright. Although many leaves have fallen, those on the trees can be green or pale yellow. One miraculous rose bush has continued to put out pink blooms all through the rainy autumn. I picked a few for the children’s lunch table and left quite as many on the bush. Although it is Halloween, I liked these better than a pumpkin as a table decoration. Life in the city hangs on to the illusion that it is eternal
The year is dying off, failing, dropping to sleep. No one wants to swim in the waters of the bay any more. To take a canoe out has become an exercise in survival. It is no longer a summer jaunt where the major preoccupation was sweating too much as we navigated the little rise between lakes. Hypothermia, drowning, memories of the fragile lives of pioneers, these are suddenly new concerns.
We meet some hunters in a little cafe that looks like something out of Twilight Zone. All but one are dressed in the cheap and hideous camouflage jackets that are the hot feature of Wallmart these days. They tell us the fine for hunting without a license is $600.and confiscation of your gun and truck. They laugh nervously when I ask if the fine is heavier if the judge is a vegetarian. With that question I blow our cover.
” We saw you digging oaks out of the bush.” one says. ” Just harvesting like us, eh?” Depends on how you look at it, I guess. I don’t tell them that we only go to do laps around Wallmart. Well, maybe to pick up one, just one lettuce when everything else is closed.
Safer to drink in the sights, the scents of this turning season. Sleep, decay, death coming.
We transplanted nine oaks into the dark earth, their tawny leaves hanging by a thread. What will we see in Spring, I wonder?