4th rv a traveler's memoirs- flying to Madrid 2

        Flying to Madrid

            2.

memos of 5th of April, 2006

In the hostel, Caracol 
not far from the western sea-front of Cadiz.

............

........

.............
In Cadiz every day in the morning
the grand roar of the waves overwhelms me
facing the sea full of light.​
Why am I here alone afar off from home?
As Pissarro, an impressionist painter said,
in order to get the wound of my soul ?
Looking  afar toward  the horizon dividing the sea and the sky
I recite lines of verse (copla) of Tona, a kind of flamenco song:

When I'm up on the hill
I like to face the wind,
to let it carry off my pain
and ease my suffering.

6th
In Cadiz
a bed of hostel Caracol, a bit chilly,
in which lies the fatigued body curled up like a prawn 
but the refreshed mind filled with the sea color.
 

7th
In Jerez
'Flamenco is a tragedy in the first person.'
 I send a email asking  Lau in Portland
what you mean by it.
She mailed her interpretation as follows:
Any personal tragedy cannot be shared with others
by saying or action. Flamenco expresses such a tragic experience.

8th 
In Jerez
A long contemplation on the straight road
to the Fundacion Andaluz de Flamenco: 
Every solo baile( flamenco dance) is in essence introvert.
The body in the moment of dancing moves inward,
not toward others
 
 
​10th
 Maria, a flamenco dancer in Jerz gave me a book, 
'Song of the Outcasts' by  Robin Totton
in which the writer says that there are no leaps,
no upward movements of any sort,
quoting, " Ballet is up, flamenco is down."
Oh, this vanity of indulging myself to flamenco!

​
​11th
On the road toward to Seville​
 a line, below, coming into my mind:
"Flamenco , in its awesome spontaneity, is in him
who can suffer from the world and feel within him-
like the dawning- an irresistible urge to cry out

14th​
In Tarifa
By the Tarifa seashore I look at the Strait of Gibraltar.
The wind touching the skin is like the pointed end of a knife.
Probably it will be not because of the chilly wind
but because of the sound of it reminding me of the deep sigh for
grief of my mother who is buried in the hill, densely covered with azalea,
not far from my hometown.
Anyway I  hurry to walk toward the quayside on which lies at anchor
a ferry, prior to sailing out, bound for Tanger, Morocco 
across the Strait. 

​
​0일
In Granada
sun-shining
sit in the bus terminal to wait for a Seville-bound bus, 
over the cup of  coffee  the Images coming across my mind:
alleys in Jerez filled with the fragrance of Sherry wine
the splendid and grand sea  of Cadiz,,
the narrow Strait of Gibraltar between Tarifa and Tanger,
the ferry 's custom officers with cautious eyes checking-up me 
desolate landscape of Tanger under the hot and dry weather, 

And  a moment of meditation on what Garcia Lorca said about
Gypsy flamenco:
The Gypsy siguiriya begins with a terrible cry, a cry that divides the landscape
into two ideal hemisphere. Then the pauses to make room for a silence that
is both amazing and measured , a silence in which the face of the turning lily glows
, the lily that has left its voice in the heavens. Next, the undulating and
never-ending melody begins as it does in Bach, though in a different sense.
The infinite melody of Bach is round: the phrase could repeat itself forever
in a circular manner; but the melody of the siguiriya disappears into the horizontal;
it escapes through our fingers and we see it off in the distance like a perfect
point of common hope and passion- where the soul can never arrive.
​