jundanu

Every morning I watch Spanish television as I sip my cafe con leche. I can only understand a tenth of what’s being said, but I fear my Catalonian neighbors are making a very big mistake in calling for independence from Spain. It’s one thing to protest bad taxes and oppression from the government, and quite another to try to create your own state. Who do you protest to then: yourself? This mini nationalist urge feels good, but the cure is often worse than the disease. The south of Sudan was right to protest the treatment, amounting to genocide, on the part of Khartoum. But the new country of South Sudan is a horror of poverty, corruption and endless civil war.

Do I believe in ghosts? Depends on which me you ask. The rational daylight me would say, no way: it’s a metaphor for our subconscious conflicts, blah, blah. But if you ask the ancient Celt that also lives still in me, I would look out of the corner of my mental eye at the shadows lurking everywhere my mind can’t reach, and say very softly: let’s not tempt the gods. Tempt the gods? I don’t even want them to know I exist.

The Plaza Bib-Rambla, also known as the Plaza De Las Flores, is one of Granada’s most frequented sites, with its many restaurants and bars, plus its central fountain topped by a statue of Poseidon. However, just a few years ago it was called La Plaza de la Inquisition, yes that’s where the Church burned those unfortunates who were found guilty of heresy or witchcraft, or maybe just breathing while Jewish/Muslim. But maybe the Spanish could teach Americans how to deal with the ghosts of our past. Instead of tearing down a statue of General Lee, why don’t we just name it after, say, SaraLee, who made those tasty cakes, or even Jerry Lee Louis, or even Jerry Lewis?

Things fall apart. The centre cannot hold. The falcon does not heed the falconer…and what rough beast, it’s hour come at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? 

The ancient streets of the Albayzin neighborhood are made of stones frozen in sand which makes walking them a challenge, to say the least. Add the frequent hazards of dog shit, plus alien looking masked and helmeted velo drivers who tear past you with little or no regard for your body or theirs and you have a perfect storm of daily threats while searching for that shop that sells really good bread. This warren of narrow, winding streets, with sudden ascents and just as sudden drops, challenge the soul as well as the soles of wary travelers. It is so easy to become hopelessly lost within a few moments of leaving the safety of your home that you should always leave some time for aimless wandering.

Leonard Cohen’s great song is about death and it pulls no punches concerning something that we all share, however we choose to face or avoid thinking about it.  I’m seventy-two and have been brushed by it’s dark wings a few times: I almost drowned in Sicily, had loaded pistols pointed at my face, narrowly missed being stuck by lightening (twice), mortars, rockets, etc. Now I know it could come quietly to me in the deep of the night, or while enjoying a sandwich at noon. This head of a Bodisattva from the Ist Century AD seems to have the slightest smile if you look closely. Perhaps it’s also making a statement about death that might not be so terrifying. 

I finally found a discount shop of used items that had a single classical guitar for sale (€100) that sounds ok. Not great for blues, but I suck at blues anyway. Hey, Willie Nelson has rocked one these boys for 50 years. Fifteen minutes in his notorious bus and I might too.

“Les sanglots long des violons de l’autumne blesse mon coeur…” Thanks, Paul, but here it’s guitars all day and all night. As if every third Andalusian child is born with a tiny instrument in  his/her hands, can execute a passable rasguedo strum at eighteen months, and by five can flamenco their asses off. But just try to buy or rent one in Granada and it’s “no paseran, senor.” Three weeks and I haven’t even seen a music shop anywhere. Maybe in the next life I will be reborn Spanish and guitar ready. [here imagine me striking an E minor chord]