New Photos

New photos on picasaweb.google.com/aaron8008 of Morocco. I'll put a more narrowed down batch on Flickr soon, but it was easier to get these ones up now. Semana Santa begins today. I go to work in 5 minutes. Should be good. Apparently Seville is going to explode with people in the streets any second. If not, more ice cream for me...

A Post!!!

Once I went to Barcelona and walked among tall buildings on lonely streets that saw only the sun reflected from the sky but never felt its real caress. In this place I walked by closed stores and open stores and wondered why the hell are there so many of these? In Barcelona I saw a man painted all brown--his skin and his clothes, even his army general glasses the same mud brown--he sat on a rock on Las Ramblas, painted and motionless like that with a lit cigar in his mouth, an army phone in his hand and a hat on the ground to receive whatever people were willing to put into it. I wondered how long he'd been sitting there and where he went at nights when he walked home, but I didn't want to break his concentration, so I kept on moving.

Earlier, in Morocco, I walked in a city all blue and white with 14 old doors that they used to close at night, locking themselves up in the safety of the cool night and keeping out the invading Spaniards. That was when invasion was still cool. This place, which goes by the name of Chefchaouen, prides itself on its wool, its hashish, and its mountain water. I tried all of them and I approve. I felt myself growing in the town of blue and white and sand. That charming and very strange town full of people who don't want to sell you anything but just want you to take a look, friend, amigo; where you are greeted on the street in three languages, but almost never in arabic or berber. Hello, hi. Hola, bonjour. Or that time when we found ourselves far from the center in a strange garage with a man named Mohammad, another fatter one he called his brother and a black garbage bag full of substance and the words "600 durham is the minimum" and feeling suddenly very small and noticing that voice in my head speaking very quickly. In Morocco, I learned how to listen to that voice.
Or there was that other time when, seeing a mountain, I decided to climb it. And on approaching the mountain I was myself approached by one who would be a multilingual 18-year-old Moroccan named Ílias who may be the only person who actually didn't want to sell us anything in Morocco. So we three (Andrew, Ílias and I) fell up the mountain pell-mell (I’ll put pictures up soonish) where Ílias rapped 50 Cent and some of his own material for us on top of Mount Sayta. We thumped our chests, clapped our hands and made sounds to accompany our hand-made Moroccan beat. We laughed, three guys from different worlds (Morocco, a place with lots of states, united, and Brazil). We did this on the top of a mountain where you could see the sun shining and shading different parts of the rolling landscape and all of the old walls that used to protect a city under siege but now stand as markers of old and new--Old Medina and new city.
In Morocco I learned how to deal with hash dealers and scammers, heard of aphrodisiac fireproof blankets and drugs that take you to another world, but I also learned how much a look from a stranger can mean, or a wave from a woman inside an autobus when you're traveling in a strange country and sitting in the parking lot excited and waiting for yours to come. It was silly really, but that forbidden wave sent us both laughing and I don't know about her but what I felt was an embrace. In Morocco, the contact you have with women is minimal, but when it happens, the intimacy is startling.

My how the times they’re a-changing! I’ve moved from my old jail and have a new room with new people, friends, a kitchen, a bike, a bed to share, liberty! It’s exactly what I’ve been lacking and I feel so alive! I’m taking advantage of all of those things.

There’s this thing about getting older, about feeling like I’ve wasted so much, of letting myself down, of sometimes feeling powerless to make it better, of getting better at ignoring that self-negation and defeatism, of taking control, of being a little bit afraid sometimes because I’m not too sure what to do with the control I have. There’s a newly acknowledged, intense fear of commitments of all kinds and the thought, "This explains some things." The bigger realization (which isn’t so much a realization as a thought from a now older-person’s perspective) that there’s so much shit I still can’t explain. I can’t forget about the excitement that I feel some days when I wake up, like today, with a fresh feeling and a thought of squeezing the day for all it's worth, of preparing for what’s coming, whatever that is. There’s compromising, forgetting to do things, getting used to failure and mistakes, refusing to believe that mistakes are a bad thing but still not being a fan of failure.
I’ve noticed a pattern lately, where I find myself sitting in the sun or maybe walking and being transported to those days when I had five years or seven years and sunshine hair and nothing but love and a life full of potential ahead of me…before I new what potential meant. Before I knew expectations and the only things I feared were monsters, losing my parents, and bad guys. That was before I knew that often the “good guys” are bad guys, that gray is a color of many shades, that monsters really do exist, and that losing yourself is just as scary and likely a possibility as losing the people you love. That was when I said I would never leave home because home had everything I needed. That was when I thought I knew what I needed and almost always knew what I wanted. When rain meant indoor recess. When weekends meant rollerblading and Free Time. That was when I thought that free time existed, and to the extent that it did, found it boring. That was before I knew the thrill of a crush and what it means to really want something (do I even now know what it means to really want something?) Before heartbreak. Before being in love and lust. Before starting over, before nostalgia and forgetting. That was when the world was so damn big and I was not a small boy but a big boy. That was when I used to go to Big Boy with dad to eat Slim Jim’s and try to color inside the lines. That was when I was a golden-eyed, sun-haired child and it was easy to impress people. When it was enough just to be a little boy or a tree or a flying ninja with special armor, and people let you do that, just be. But now it’s not all like that. Something’s changed, and I’m not sure when or how all of that happened, but I think with each day, I’m somehow becoming more okay with that fact, with the newness and learning of this adventure, where you’re not allowed restarts and have to think on your feet. Where there really aren’t answers and where, eventually, you realize that the answers aren’t the point, and so you take a deep breath, pick up your backpack, say bye to the people at work and walk to class. And like always, you look up at the sky while you're walking and smile, laughing silently at yourself and the world.

Woman Wanted (excerpt)

"You know," he said, "I do well on the sex quizzes."
Edna sipped at her drink and didn't answer.
"How do you do on the sex quizzes?" Joe asked.
"I've never taken any."
"You should, you know, so you'll find out who you are and what you are."
"Do you think those things are valid? I've seen them in the newspaper. I haven't taken them but I've seen them," said Edna.
"Of course they're valid."
"Maybe I'm no good at sex," said Edna, "maybe that's why I'm alone." She took a long drink from her glass.
"Each of us is, finally, alone," said Joe.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, no matter how well it's going sexually or love-wise or both, the day arrives when it's over."
"That's sad," said Edna.
"Of course. So the day arrives when it's over. Either there is a split or the whole thing resolves into a truce: two people living together without feeling anything. I believe that being alone is better."
"Did you divorce your wife, Joe?"
"No, she divorced me."
"What went wrong?"
"Sexual orgies."
"Sexual orgies?"
"You know, a sexual orgy is the loneliest place in the world. Those orgies -- I felt a sense of desperation -- those cocks sliding in and out -- excuse me ..."
"It's all right."
"Those cocks sliding in and out, legs locked, fingers working, mouths, everybody clutching and sweating and determined to do it -- somehow."
"I don't know much about those things, Joe," Edna said.
"I believe that without love, sex is nothing. Things can only be meaningful when some feeling exists between the participants."
"You mean people have to like each other?"
"It helps."
"Suppose they get tired of each other? Suppose they have to stay together? Economics? Children? All that?"
"Orgies won't do it."
"What does it?"
"Well, I don't know. Maybe the swap."
"The swap?"
"You know, when two couples know each other quite well and switch partners. Feelings, at least, have a chance. For example, say I've always liked Mike's wife. I've liked her for months. I've watched her walk across the room. I like her movements. Her movements have made me curious. I wonder, you know, what goes with those movements. I've seen her angry, I've seen her drunk, I've seen her sober. And then, the swap. You're in the bedroom with her, at last you're knowing her. There's a chance for something real. Of course, Mike has your wife in the other room. Good luck, Mike, you think, and I hope you're as good a lover as I am."
"And it works all right?"
"Well, I dunno . . . Swaps can cause difficulties . . . afterwards. It all has to be talked out . . . very well talked out ahead of time. And then maybe people don't know enough, no matter how much they talk . . ."
"Do you know enough, Joe?"
"Well, these swaps ... I think it might be good for some . . . maybe good for many. I guess it wouldn't work for me. I'm toomuch of a prude."
Joe finished his drink. Edna set the remainder of hers down and stood up.
"Listen Joe, I have to be going ..."
Joe walked across the room toward her. He looked like an elephant in those pants. She saw his big ears. Then he grabbed her and was kissing her. His bad breath came through all the drinks. He had a very sour smell. Part of his mouth was not making contact. He was strong but his strength was not pure, it begged. She pulled her head away and still he held her.
WOMAN WANTED.
"Joe, let me go! You're moving too fast, Joe! Let go!"
"Why did you come here, bitch?"
He tried to kiss her again and succeeded. It was horrible. Edna brought her knee up. She got him good. He grabbed and fell to the rug.
."God, god ... why'd you have to do that? You tried to kill me . . ."
He rolled on the floor.
His behind, she thought, he had such an ugly behind.
She left him rolling on the rug and ran down the stairway. The air was clean outside. She heard people talking, she heard their T.V. sets. It wasn't a long walk to her apartment. She felt the need of another bath, got out of her blue knit dress and scrubbed herself. Then she got out of the tub, toweled herself dry and set her hair in pink curlers. She decided not to see him again.


Bukowski, South of No North

A Big Day

Big Day Today:

Castro Steps down as President of Cuba
Musharraf accepts defeat???
Kosovo's a country
And I'm moving.

AND...I'm moving.

Camping Photos

I was unable to bring my camera on the backpacking/camping trip (a major bummer), but here is a link to my friend Andrea's pictures. They're good. The trip was amazing. I've never seen so many stars, wild cows, or rocks like old men. My first trip to the mountains will surely not be my last. We're already talking about making another trek out to Ronda and camping out there for a weekend. Trouble is everybody is planning things for Semana Santa and I already promised my boss that I'd work through the whole week. Perhaps I can use that money to make some trips after classes end. Today is day two of the new semester. I'm taking all Anthro classes and an Art History class in the program center on the Great Spanish Masters (from Velázquez to Dali/Picasso). Things are looking good. A fresh start with all of the perks of having already lived here for 5 months.

Camping

I'm leaving for the Sierra de Grazalema (mountains in Cadiz) with some friends from the Uni today at 5 on a camping trip which should last until Sunday. We'll be sleeping under the stars (hopefully dryly...) I've been thinking about it and it's shocking to me that I've NEVER really done this before. I mean, never, not even once, have I just packed up food and clothes in a backpack and set out into the wilderness. I'm excited, but wishing I had a bit more experience packing/preparing food. I really have no idea what I'm doing. I'm figuring bread, peanut butter (except that that doesn't exist here...crazy spanish people) wine (to keep warm), bacon, granola, water, cheese, and some assorted veggies. And if that's not enough, there are a few people on the trip who I don't know and probably wouldn't miss.

I'm off to the market to buy goods. Still have to post on Carnival and an assortment of other adventures. I'll try to do that when I get back.

Dicho

La negación sosiega,
La afirmación transforma.