15.9.11

barcelona and the ring





I was that guy today. I was pouring coffee into a this white paper cup and turned around when someone asked a question of someone who was not me.
"what is the name of that animal who poops out coffee beans?" he asked her.
"Luwak" I said.
I said it like peter, out loud, and as i turned.

I said Luwak and i started my day with coffee and tchaikovski as i lifted boxes and bags of flour at 5:30. the same day ended as i taught someone passionate how to make a spoon. and when i fell asleep, and when i held the guitar. and the day ended as i whittled chocolate mouse into my mouth as a stonefaced me spread it's pages on the cafe table and stared at the line of people fidgeting. they fidgeted their eyes at the chalkboard menu and fidgeted their hands at the backs of their pockets. they were thinking God-knows-what and i looked at them until it was all over.
round there are different people on each sides with oneida spoons in demitasses passing between them.there are different actors in this one unending game. they will never surrender. wall after wall of carrot-pantleg midlife crisis, barefoot flats, and sandals. Highwaisted socks get paired with dead imaginations, because we have built this world with nothing left to run from.




there is a memory to which i hold on tightly- and often hope it is not misremembered. I was Ten or Eleven in Barcelona or somewhere else. My father was tiling with the local men and they had set us up with a cracked apartment with a common stairwell and a gaudi-colored swimming pool. The pool was like a glass of ice-water, so we spent a good deal of time looking at the city and at the small static screen in the corner of some room. We could hear some shouting in the apartments below and around us, but they did not correspond with the Spanish language FIFA in the corner or the passersby below the balcony. It was the closest I'd ever been to the arenas and when we found the station- any one of them, i watched the matadors and horn-bulls dance. Every place around there were men on folding chairs watching. the colours of the city were washed and the women joined the men and watched it too. I was young and i understood it all. I felt the game then as i have felt no other. there was blood and there was life and thousands shouting. and the fighters were so young.

When i was a child i spoke as a child and i reasoned as a child.
when i became a man i put away childish things. And now i'd like to get them back.

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