Becoming Fool of Love: Al-Andalus

Toros along the highways: estoy en España!

Plaza de España: un delicio

Leaving Sevilla already. I know, it was too quick. A day and a half or so, though most of it I spent walking around with my eyes and my ears widely open, smiling widely also. Should I have stayed one more day? For Sevilla is a jewel, the extent of her beauty would require some time to imprint fully everywhere inside of me. And that's what I'm doing; drinking from the sublime sources surrounding me.

Triana Bridge

Minaret turned into
the Giralda tower of the cathedral.

Sevilla. One more river colonized, in rounds; phoenicians, arabs, romans, spaniards. Muslims and Catholics. Mosques turned to cathedrals. The architecture tells the story.

Arche-texture. Orange trees along passing streets, as if one could simply reach up to such abundance. As if there was enough for everybody. I'm told they are sour like lemons. I like lemons.

Tragedy of the Commons?

A special kind of yellow and red. Colors of the corrida. Dark yellow sand. Red like blood. There was a time when the law made it mandatory to paint one's house either white, yellow, or red. I am grateful for that law today.

It's the little details...

The narrowest streets I might have seen so far. And that's not a small thing to say for there are many such neighborhoods in old Europe. Here I'm told it's a question of climate. Keeps the cool during those months of extreme summer heat, keeps the warmth during the "winter".

I'm on my way to Cádiz now, which is an an hour and forty-five minutes by bus. Twelve euros. I'm going to take a look/feel at this place which is renown for its moorish feel. I've been playing it by ear a little. In Sevilla, staying at a youth hostel was a different experience, but I thought I'd send a few messages to potential hosts in Cádiz and go if someone wrote back. Someone did. She sounded so enthusiastic about meeting me that I didn't really think twice and decided to go.

This is something so incredibly marvelous: strangers, connection, intersections.

The blisters I got from harvesting olives are almost healed now. It's tricky, because they're right in the joints of my fingers. I wash my hands several times a day. I move my fingers a lot. This one on my left hand might take a good while to heal completely. But my point for sharing this is that I have been juggling a bit more recently. First with J., on the shore of the Garonne in Toulouse. Today, waiting at the bus station.

It has to do with sunshine too. (It's just no fun to juggle when it's cold and rainy. I have attributed many psychological resistances to my failure to play as much as I had intended throughout this trip, but in truth, it does have sooo much to do with the weather!!

Andalusia… I love you.

Torre del Oro
on the banks of the Guadalquivir river,
at sunset!

This morning at the bus station, I went to a spot in a remote corner and took out my clubs. And my headphones. I noticed people slowing their walk, turning their head, curious to see. It's often like this.

So I think to myself: "Why don't I just put out a hat? I could perhaps at least make a few euros!" … So why not?

Because once gathered, people want a show. Once the hat is out, there are expectations. It must be real.

And what if I didn't give 'em the spectacle [I think that] they think they want? What if I just gave her my perpetual rehearsal instead? Practice, and include them... look at them, connect, smile, invite them in. It'd be so hard, so imperfect, so unpredictable, so full of unknown.

All qualities within which the clown operates.

Something in me knows I could do it. A little bit of juggling, a little bit of dancing (Butoh?), a little bit of singing.

Give them a show. With them.

I see it so clearly: how I hide and practice, waiting 'til it's perfect, or until it's "good enough", waiting to come out.