el sueño de la razón produce monstruos
It has, my friends, been a good many days since I wrote, but fortunately those many days have, indeed, been good (more or less).
(I like that I write this over a near-midnight snack of a quarter of a baguette, jam, and half a bottle of white wine which I expect to happily dispense {via repeated swigging gestures} to my most venerated stomach before turning in for the evening.)
Tonight concludes one of those most excellent holiday stretches that Spain, and particularly the Autonomous Community of Madrid, are famous for having; this particular festival of total lethargy was the product of Constitution Day falling on Thursday and the Feast of the Immaculate Conception falling on Saturday, meaning that Friday was squared away as a holiday as well, for good riddance, and thus we were all of us given a nice four-day weekend, the third which we’ve had in as many months (along with other, sporadic free days - indeed, both the Minister and I still debate as to whether or not we’ve both of us actually yet attended a full week of school, between his and my own absences, the disappearance of certain professors and the specifically sanctioned free days. But all’s well in the Kingdom, or as well as one can reasonably expect the Kingdom to be.
I gave blood (see picture of my fucking sexy arm) a couple of weeks back, and as per usual this was a smashing experience, with the general party bus environment being maintained. The nurse, this time, was an Andalusian woman who kept making really bizarre, sexually-charge off-hand comment, to the general amusement of everyone giving blood. Rather than tell us to take it easy, she simply told us that, when we went out that night, we shouldn’t bother taking too much cash as one drink would likely leave us totally sloshed, and so “getting buzzed - or something else - is going to be cheap for you kids tonight!” Later, telling us to make sure we got hydrated, she said “Tomen much agua, que es buena para el cutis - y para la impotencia,” starring at several of the fellows on the bus (when she looked at me I burst into laughter). This was all, by the way, perfect, as losing a pint of blood is just what one needs before going to class, and in particular my Técnicas de la Entrevista course, taught by a silly, shrew-ish woman. Tho it may have been the blood loss, I distinctly remember (and my jots in the moleskin confirm) that at some point during the lecture the woman started an anecdote by saying, “Una vez, en una entrevista con un gay…” (“This one time, in an interview with a gay”) and then proceeded to tell the anecdote, doing a really exaggerated impression of this apparently flamboyant interviewee, despite the anecdote having nothing, ultimately, to do with the interviewee’s sexuality or demeanor, even - indeed, it was some sort of story that was supposed to teach us the importance of taking notes during an interview or something, tho by her telling of it one could easily imagine that she was attempting to show us how to pull off a Harvey Fierstein impersonation. Also, this was apparently the class in which she (rightly) corrected a student on account of his telling her that he was gathering “blackground” information on a future interviewee.
It has been a damned good age for art. I have been drawing like a madman lately, mainly in the moleskin, but also on postcards, and I’ve started the series of portraits that I’ve planned as gifts for my siblings and parents, progressing well-enough on the formal one of Iñaki - tho I’m not celebrating too much as I’ve a habit of starting these things early enough, but then procrastinating on finishing them and ultimately finding myself in a horrible panic, trying to wrap them up desperately at the very last moment or, alas, even missing the deadline and ultimately partially regretting having taken-on the venture in the first place. I’m aiming to finish Iñaki’s before I head back; if I do that, and perhaps get Xabi is as well then, well, perhaps there is a chance I’ll make it, tho admittedly it seems it might be too much for me to get done by the 25th. We shall see. As it stands, tho, I’m pleased with all of this, and the watercolours covering my fingers.
It comes to mind, at any rate, on account of my paging through the moleskin and recalling a rather fundamental exhibition I attended a couple of weeks back which I do, certainly, feel I should atleast mention, given it was pretty fucking amazing; said show was the Arte Moderno en Portugal exhibition at the Fundacion Carlos de Amberes, a curious 400-year-old non-profit-of-sorts which apparently runs on the funds first established by Don Carlos, native of the Duchy of Brabantes, in Madrid in 1594. At any rate, this exhibition was a pretty fantastic slice of the best of Portugese art from the early XXth century, and I came to know some really brilliant and previously entirely unknown artists (Amadeo do Souza-Cardoso, Christiano Cruz, Eduardo Viana, Abel Manta, José do Almada Negreiros, Antonio Pedro) that, curiously, have had an impact on what I’ve been drawing lately, and, hey, new inspirations are nice. Combined with the general Schiele and Klimmt stuff that has been brooding about, I’m happily fascinated with the early twentieth century (and modernism, particularly) lately, and that’s all quite nice.
The exhibition I saw the evening after Claire’s Thanksgiving Spectacular, which was itself held on the day after Thanksgiving, due to the fact that the right-proper expats are obliged to adjust our lives to the particularities of the host nations, and so, being by no means exempt from participating in the daily going-on’s on a regular Friday workday in Spain, and wishing to be able to fully exploit the wonders that Thanksgiving might suggest to its fullest extension, none were by any means inclined to assume all that Thanksgiving implies without having a day of rest available immediately following (in which to deal with inevitable process of digestion and the possibility of a raging hangover). Claire did a smashing job of hosting what turned out to be a most spectacular reunion; Sarah came over earlier in the evening and, after some last minute shopping, we set about making candied yams which turned out pretty fucking wonderfully and were remarkably easy to make (I may take on the challenge again for Christmas dinner, perhaps, tho I’m not really sure it matches perfectly with the traditional lechón).
(Also, while waiting for things to boil, we watched like seven youtube clips of Chicken Boo, which many of you will remember as having been a [fucking awesome] childhood phenomenon.)
The party itself was huge, yet remarkably the turkey was equally large, and everyone was well-fed and the actual meal delicious. Despite the tons of people, if anything the reunion only served to definitively crystallize a sub-group of pretty fantastic vicious circle comprised of Sarah Larson, David Misner and his consort, Rose Peck and her suitor, Claire Kaplan, myself - and scarcely any others. Said society stuck to a corner and essentially spent the rest of the evening ripping into other guests as well as the delicious pie; it was, indeed, a lovely party.
A second Thanksgiving was held two days later, on Sunday, this time hosted by Alexis Campos, young woman whom I came to know as the cheerleader who would come home [platonically] with my younger brother on a regular basis during this one’s early high school years, and whom I must have met and gradually grown to know, I suppose, during the Septembers and Decembers that customarily find me in town. Tho I hadn’t seen her for atleast three or four years, Xabi had informed her of my whereabouts and a few days before Thanksgiving the standard facebook message had arrived requesting my presence at her festivities - which were, honestly, really awesome as well. Claire’s fest had great company, and while this one was not entirely lacking, by any means, it stands out in terms of the food in that, of course, being a party this time hosted by semester abroad students with loads of cash to blow (in contrast to the more settled expat crowd chez Claire’s) and enthusiasm not yet marred by extended periods abroad, this dinner ended up being more lavish and Thanksgiving-y than most of the actual Thanksgivings I’ve had in Miami. The girls who hosted (it was a flat of some 6 Saint Louis University semester abroad girls) had literally spent the past two days cooking, and so I arrived to find tables upon tables upon tables of fantastically prepared dishes, many of which had only come to be thanks to the grace of parents who had fed-exed boxes upon boxes of special ingredients, canned mixes and even, in one case, freshly picked Georgian pecans for the [really fucking amazing] pecan pie. Both parties had incredible food, mind you, but while Claire’s is notable for the excellent quality of people present, this one boggled the mind in terms of the quantity of food present. After the food we ended up screwing around, tossing a balloon back and forth, and this eventually turned into a game whereby one had to pass the balloon without letting it reach the ground, and if this happened, or if one touched the balloon twice consecutively, one was obliged to accept a dare from the audience. It was more or less entertaining; a larger girl did a dance that was essentially an extended wobbling of her breasts, one of the boys did a mock strip-tease and I was required to sing “Happy Birthday Mr. President” a la Marilyn Monroe to the hostess. At the end of the evening, I went home with both pie and stuffing and, well, not much can beat that.
And so Thanksgiving was awesome, and rather belatedly I use this venerated forum to express my gratefulness to the generous hostesses who made it possible.
On an entirely separate note, my dreams have been a bit out of control lately - as indeed have my sleeping habits on the whole - and tho some of them have been most welcome manifestations of things I most wish to be experiencing at the moment, but which distance makes impossible, these wonders have sadly been outnumbered by incredibly intense, horrible nightmares of most-wretched intensity. I dream regularly - in fact, it’s rare when I do-not dream - and I enjoy this about me, I enjoy that connection with my subconscious…but I cannot really account for any explanation for these recent terrors. About a week ago I dreamt that there was someone standing in the dark, peering at me from my doorway, and that when I tried to turn on my bed-side lamp to see who it was the lamp would not turn on, and the figure in the darkness kept on watching me; it was realistic enough that I woke up, sufficiently concerned, and fully expected the lamp not to work, tho ultimately it did and ultimately I was alone. Last Saturday night, after passing out naked on my bed like some fainting Victorian, I also ended up dreaming when I actually got round to formally going to bed; this time the nightmare involved zombies, and tho normally they’re such frequent guests in my dreams that I no longer fear them, immediately recognizing them and thus triggering a sort of lucid dreaming which find me well-amused in the actual dreamscape, this time it was different. I was hiding out in a large flat in a tall building, and tho the flat was well-stocked and it seemed I was there with a family, I could peer down and see them slowly stalking up the walls and this (together with a front door that was clearly not zombie-proof) filled me with a sense of dread and impending doom. I woke up stressed out and unhappy, thinking that I wanted to live and being obviously frustrated by the situation which would not be permitting me to do so; when I woke up more fully I very wearily sighed to myself and wished to be free of all of this horrid junk. Some fewer nights ago I dreamt of drowning in a river. I’m very confused as to what all of this means, but methinks I’d very much like it to end; I enjoy having dreams, but these are honestly wearing me out.
And so that blows.
You know what doesn’t blow? Sex.
(Or rather it does, or can, but not in the context that I was using that word initially.)
But I digress, or rather begin to address something which I do not mean to for, indeed, I talk not about sex not-blowing, but rather things related to it, directly surfacing as entertainment these past days, in particular the safe-sex blow-out with Claire last Wednesday, and the Savage Love Podcasts that kept my ears occupied during the long hours drawing throughout this weekend.
Last Wednesday, after a frustrated quest for a skinny tie, Claire and I ended up were up for doing something entirely original, by which I mean that we were up for taking an AIDS test provided by the City of Madrid after following little banners to the tent set up in a plaza in Chueca and deciding that this would be something fun to do on a Wednesday evening. A few minutes and a pocketful of free condoms of all sorts later, Claire and I were in line, answering a simple questionnaire, and before we knew it we were into one of the tents in which we were each [individually] addressed by a nurse (in my case a delightful young lady with fun red hair) who told us all about the test, explained the procedure, answered any inquiries on our part, and summarily pricked our finger. Fifteen excruciating minutes later (Claire brought up unexpectedly finding out that one has AIDS using the Larry Clark’s Kids example, effectively stressing both of us out about the results tho neither one of us had any logical reason to worry), we were called into another tent by our numbers and summarily given the results: we are both pure as the driven snow, and completely and utterly free of HIV.
(HURRAH!)
We celebrated by filling our pockets with more condoms as if they were strawberries and we little schoolgirls picking berries in the field for marmalade-making - tho, understandably, condoms are not to be used for such things. The free packs of lube, however...
Secondly, upon the offhand mention by She-Whose-Name-Ought-Not-Be-Mentioned, I ended up downloading and listening to tons [TONS] of Savage Love Live podcasts over the weekend. Savage Love, of course, is the sex advice column by the noted sexologist (and big gay) Dan Savage, who [extremely amusingly] answers phone-in questions about sexual issues in, basically, the most rude manner possible - and both knowledge and hilarity ensues! Indeed, over the course of the weekend I learnt all about things I would never care to actually practice in my actual sex life but, hey, it was well worth it in that now I can even more authoritatively speak out my resounding “nay” whenever anyone mentions fisting or bdsm or all the unusual diversions that make a surprising number of entirely regular people happy in their private lives.
In between the sex talk (and the drawing, and the outings, and the everything-fucking-else-I-did-this-weekend) I also successfully mastered making a pretty killer brie and goat’s cheese Alfredo sauce, and so hurrah, as well, for that. I also got some awesome tea in an awesome package in the mail, and read interesting / macabre things in The New York Times’ regional section.
And so it was a good weekend (more or less), and one that arrived right on time (I fell asleep while tutoring one of my kids this week; it was fine, when he nudged me I awoke telling him that I was worried about his pronunciation, and apparently he thought I had just closed my eyes in frustration for a long time, rather than passed out because he was so damned boring). And I watched a lot of movies, but before we address them can we just take a moment to talk about Lawrence of Arabia being really really AWESOME? (About as awesome as AWESOME BALKAN DANCE MUSIC, right?) Seriously, I know I’m totally gay for David Lean movies (completely unexpected use of the word in that context, right?) and that epics like The Bridge over the River Kwai and Doctor Zhivago “move” me, but Lawrence of Arabia…something for everyone, eh??? Seriously, as soon as I finished watching it my immediate wants were 1) the desert, and 2) a camel (how fucking cool are they???); I’m calmer, now, but I basically want to move to Egypt or something - indeed, I glow with admiring jealousy when I see the updated facebook profiles of friends currently stationed at the American University in Cairo. I’m not sure I’d want to go terribly deep into “Arabia”-proper, but Egypt tho…wow. Even tho Seville is obviously the movie’s Cairo stand-in (indeed, their British High Command Headquarters is immediately recognized actually the Spanish Pavillion / Plaza de España, built off the Parque de María Luisa for the Ibero-American Exhibition of 1929 - the same place also doubles as a palace in Naboo in Star Wars: Attack of the Clones), I’ve always wanted to go to the real thing, and the urge was only stroked by this latest viewing; part of me always dreaded the whole foreign correspondent thing, on account of the annoyance of possibly being shipped off to the new focus of interest in the Middle East, but Egypt…that would, indeed, be something. Something, at any case, many years off - should it ever happen - but I could do that, or atleast take a trip there, someday. Mehopes I shall.
And so, quickly, other films I’ve seen lately:
Vera Drake: Really great film about an abortionist in post-war London. Great acting, good plot, nice job.
A Plein Soleil: First adaptation of The Talented Mr. Ripley, and completely and utterly French, and by proxy curiously more sexy than the later one. Indeed, it was pretty hot. Sure, confusing, especially when they’re French but they keep all the names as well as the whole “Your father sent me from the States to fetch you” plot-line, but nicely done all the same, if slightly slow at times. This Ripley is a lot more conniving than the Matt Damon interpretation.
Sense and Sensibility: Sigh. I liked the book less than Pride and Prejudice, and indeed the movie is no BBC 6-hour epic, and yet…Jane Austen really can do no wrong, can she? Charming.
Conspiracy: Remarkably interesting / entertaining film about the Wannsee Conference, in which a small group of Nazi officials finally decided on the “Final Solution” option as a way of resolving the “Jewish Problem”. Excellent cast, and fine type-casting by setting up Kenneth Branaugh as a pompous, know-it-all Nazi general (seems about right, after his incessant self-casting as the lead role in each Shakespeare play he tediously adapts to film).
Sunset Boulevard: Quite the [gaygaygay] film noir, isn’t it.
Witness for the Prosecution: SO. GOOD.
Casino Royale: Eh. It really wasn’t that entertaining, honestly. I hope Eva Green does more than just pout in The Golden Compass, because she didn’t really show much different from her character in The Dreamers in this one, and she really is starting to fall into a pretty standard, boring habit of doing the same fiery-sexy thing in every film; it’s fine, but do something different for a change, nay?
Shortbus: Downloaded, re-saw, still fun.
Stardust: Downloaded, re-saw, still ADORABLE. Such a delightful movie.
And my bottle's finished, so that’s all for now, kids; the week won’t see me finish it off here - I’ll be back in the colonies by Thursday evening, tho hopefully all update again before then. Till then, however, night!
Update, 10/11/07, 7.56: Guess what sort of dream I just woke up from, with a racing pulse and total panic? A fucking bad one, involving Zombies attacking me at home! Bah. Booooo.