i sing the body electric
I’ve been quite happy lately, and this weekend concludes seeing me equally so, which is fantastic.
But I’ve also been increasingly tired these past few weeks, and while that’s fine, too, it’s also strange, as I haven’t been doing much [which is to say, I haven’t been doing much more than usual]; the week before this-one-soon-to-conclude was understandable, as stress related to the worries on the home-front could easily account fro the down-wearing, but with that largely dispensed-with [tho never yet fully out of the picture, as it hasn’t by any means been definitively settled] I now begin to think that the exhaustion’s nuanced continuance into this week (the likes of which were enough to make me cancel my lessons tuesday evening and friday afternoon - unprecedented gestures, both) might, perhaps, be due to the change in the weather.
Indeed, it is fall: the leaves have either yellowed, reddened, or fallen by now, and the chill has registered itself most definitively within the city; the jaunt to school on Friday was made uncomfortable by it being positively colder than a witch’s teet, and while yesterday evening was slightly more bearable, my fingers damn-near froze off this morning at the Rastro. Despite my lack of enthusiasm for the cold, however, I’m more than a bit pleased by the season’s late but bold acquisition of a tangible identity, and relishing in the beautiful strangeness of the time, influence of which begins to make its impact upon everything, not least of which (apparently) my hormones. To be sure, beside exhaustion, I’ve been going though an entirely unscheduled period of sexual awareness of late. This usually happens in Spring, when sudden bursts of intensity manifest themselves and one abruptly becomes aware of all one’s sexual prowess and potential and status at the cusp of one’s sexual peak in as incongruent a moment as that which finds one fetching a book from the library or taking the stroll to one’s evening lessons; summer, as well, as we know, is a period of equally crimson-toned sweeps of venal charges, smoldering moments of deep breaths and the epic tensing of fingers grasping the contoured muscles of another’s back. But, Autumn…how unexpected? It get’s chilly, people cover up, and no more does one have the temptation of bare skin and sweaty glances; if anything, it was always the most boring of the seasons, given that it’s dull sister, Winter, has generally managed to spice things up, if not by the memorable events of some years past (unexpected kiss leading to furtive carresses in a childhood bedroom over Christmas Break), then certainly with suggestion that something might happen, or atleast just the general romantic atmosphere of ducking into a warmly-lit place on a frigid night. But, lordy, this year…Autumn...what monumental frustration.
Which is fine, really. Frustration can be (and is, for the moment) monumentally amusing, and my attentions continue to be unwaveringly directed solely to one party and, despite this, the urges are by no means melancholic, but rather ones of gleeful decisiveness and, dare I say, antici…pation. And that really is all good but, LORDY - it’s just rather fascinating that desire manifests itself with such…epic bursts and…consistent prominence. I mean, I like suddenly feeling the urge for neck-biting at entirely random intervals, but I daresay it’s more than a bit surprising when, entirely unprompted, that same [or even a more carnal] urge suddenly floods my senses in the middle of my History of Spanish Journalism lesson.
Surprising is totally okay, tho.
But I’m more than looking forward to December.
Despite this, tho, I’m pleased with how time is moving (just fast enough, it seems - this has been the norm for most-all of this year, which is splendid), and I am more than satisfied with life-in-general. Sure, I’m having strange dreams, and last night I woke up thrice from nightmare-of-sorts (in the first my youngest brother and I were pursued by murderers in a car, in the second I was about to be murdered by a knife-wielding psychopath who was breaking into my room aboard an abandoned cruise ship, in the third I had lost my camera and a number of other important objects at some sort of fair in downtown Miami), but in the conscious world I’ve been partaking in little pleasures like unscheduled drop-in’s at cool exhibitions (Abstracción del Paisaje landscape retrospective with Claire, and then the fucking-brilliant Las Mejores Fotos del Siglo XX thing inside the old water tower in the Canal de Isabel II gardens), and so I suppose that all balances out. I am busy [read: extremely busy - which perhaps really does explain the tired, now that I think about it with a greater degree of clarity than I had at the beginning of this article] between school and work and the Madrid-during-the-War project and social life and etc., and there are, of course, always complications and stresses and things that worry me immensely [read: home things], but inasmuch as things that can directly be accounted for, things are good and I am happy.
I’ve been doing a lot of listening these past weeks; indeed, since internet was restored (after an absence of several months) I’ve been rapidly catching up and tending to the acquisition of auditory wonders, of which of greatest impact where the podcasts so essential to keeping me entertained and informed during the everyday moments of my life (cooking, cleaning, commuting), but of near-equal importance is the barrage of different music that has been playing soundtrack to my life, of late. The latest genre is jazz (with Claire’s mention of listening to Miles Davis while taking in the change of scenery inspiring me to reopen and expand my own selection, rehear the Talented Mr. Ripley soundtrack, and near-obsessively listen to Davis’s interpretation of [my already obsessively listened-to] Concierto de Aranjuez), but I’ve by no means been so “art-faggy” as to exclusively subsist upon a diet of Charlie Parker and Dizzie Gillespie; indeed, the brooding clarinets and drum-raps have been balanced with, of all things, a whole lot of bluegrass, mainly things from Old Crow Medicine Show, band which I rather adore. It’s a strange thing, my acquaintance with the genre, but I really do love the fiddles and the banjos and the adrenaline and excitement that courses through the more upbeat songs of the style. And, what else…? A lot of Bird and the Bee the week before last, and a deep reacquaintance with Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony, which I hadn’t heard since the big dinner-party at Justin’s house this summer, and which I hadn’t obsessively listened-to since three winters ago, when it served as the looped background for my frantic typing-up of the French Revolution paper; it is no less magnificent, and it thrills my heartstrings with atleast as much as intensity as it did then - it is, in fact, perfect, and the man was a fucking genius. As was Tchaikovsky, whose 1812 Overture has also made a major comeback this week, with the little Russian peasant bits going well with the wind swirling the leaves into the air on the streets, and all of that was curious to accompany with my rediscovery of Sportfreunde Stiller (standard German fun-rock companion of spring and summer of 2004) and The English Beat, which have also led a nice little ska phase that occupied the middle of the week with blasts of trumpet and fun little base kicks. Topping it off last night, and bringing this paragraph full-circle, was a splendid little jazz encounter at a pretty amazing little whole-in-the-wall café in Lavapiés, where I listened to a group that sounded gloriously of Django and really relished in the saxophone, instrument which I used to hate but sound-of-which I started to really intensely love some years ago.
Independently from the internet, also returning this week: paternal instincts. Entirely trivial for the moment, completely un-pressing, but I am back to now rather firmly thinking that I shall one day want to raise a child as my own.
People are living longer now, and will likely therefore suffer prolonged, painful deaths, say scientists interviewed on the BBC. I would like to die not-terribly-old, preferably on a sunny day in the countryside.
This entry, however, dies on this cold Madrid evening; happy week, children.
Edit: The second and third paragraphs down might suggest that i'm wandering about incapable of controlling physical (namely concluding) reactions to sexual self-awareness. I can't really think of any way to alter this perception - and I'm not sure I want to, given it amuses me to no end - but I assure that, for the record, this is most certainly not the case.