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Saturday, May 10, 2003 My god, what a beautiful day. The kind of day that just about renders me speechless, where I seem to slip into a state that is essentially pure input. The kind of day that will lower elevated blood pressure, restore peace of mind. It is one of those times in May when bits of milkweed fluff float about in the warm air, slipping in and out of sunlight and bands of shadow, slowly, as if savoring the shifts in direction that slight breezes and changes in air temperature bring, now and then barely moving, swirling lingeringly about in place, other times seeming to leap upward toward blue sky, sunshine. I was out walking for a while, taking it all in. On returning home, I entered the living room to find a lone bit of milkweed fluff hanging suspended in the middle of the space, moving in a leisurely, meditative spiral, at times sliding gracefully into a shaft of light that slanted in from one of the windows, at other times withdrawing back into the darker portion of the room. It almost feels to me as if a there were a fundamental silence beneath the surface of days like this, a benign stillness laying quietly beneath the coming and going of sounds from the world around. Probably just my imagination. *************************** And then there are those moments when I ask myself why I even bother writing the drivel I cough up here when someone like Mimi Smartypants is cranking out the genuine article. If her latest two entries don't get your drink of choice squirting out of your nostrils from laughter, I suggest you bring up her entry of March 24 and take a gander at the transcript of her chatroom exchange with Hottmale 34. As she says, solid gold. *********************************** Last night's adventures in the Metro (heading to class): -- As I entered the station a little after 7 o'clock -- plenty of people about, heading home from work or beginning their Friday evening -- two tough guy/hipsters pushed by, striding straight for the turnstiles. They both did the get-in-free-by-jumping-over-the-turnstiles maneuver, continued on toward the escalators. No security cops were around, no one stopped them. They reached the escalators, positioned themselves next to each other, then stopped, blocking the way for anyone wanting to pass. Traveling solo, I tend to walk up and down the escalators, something many people do here -- the protocol is for those who prefer to stand still to move to the right so everyone else can pass by. I hit the escalator behind those two guys, descended to the step behind the guy to the left, saying a clear, polite, "Perdón," so he knew I wanted to pass. He looked around, then ignored me, leaving me the options of (a) standing there, intentionally disregarded, or (b) pushing by. I chose to push by, calling out a cheery, "Asshole!" as I went. (Oh ho ho! Watch out -- RWS gets obnoxiously assertive!) I'm afraid I do things like that every once in a long while, though with nowhere near the frequency or antisocial virtuosity of younger, less happy, more defiant days. Not very nice I will admit, likely doing little to promote civility/inner peace, though producing definite, if ephemeral, short-term gratification. No response from the pair. Maybe not fluent in English profanity. -- As I turned the corner at the bottom of the escalator, a short, very heavy 50-something woman trudged by, heading toward the up escalator. Pulling a small wheeled suitcase, audibly out of breath, looking weary and physically uncomfortable. -- Beyond her, I passed a blind woman. (There is an ONCE center (ONCE -- a Spanish organization of and for the blind) somewhere in this neighborhood, so that sightless folk are a common sight hereabouts, often walking solo, sometimes in pairs or groups of three or four. Almost always using the long, white probe-sticks in place of a seeing-eye dog.) She clung to the right-hand wall, walking hesitantly, finding her way around the corner slowly, then proceeding down the long corridor ahead, the voices of people coming from a train echoing in the hallway around her. -- The train I caught was crowded with Friday evening travelers, all kinds of people, of all ages, including a 40ish male with a white, metal cello case on wheels, nearly covered with stickers that all appeared to say one of three different things: (a) Fragile!, (b) Security, or (c) Security Clearance. No stickers denoting countries visited that I could see, none relating to music in any way. It was a beautiful evening, flush with late-day sunlight, sidewalks filled with people out enjoying the warm air, the city center crowded and active well into the wee hours. "The wee hours" in this neighborhood means well into the morning, nearly to sunrise. It remains nicely surprising to me that I experience the constant stream of noise rising from the street-level below as something comfortable, even pleasurable. For the most part, that is, save the occasional burst of serious noise, like that of this last Thursday night when a resident of the neighborhood turned their stereo up to its highest setting, opened their windows and blasted the rest of us with music, starting around 12:15 a.m. Caught me in bed, reading, just about ready to turn off the light. Earplugs were quickly inserted into the appropriate orifices, three songs along the music abruptly stopped, leaving the usual, manageable Thursday night barrio soundtrack to lull me to sleep. This morning brought another gently beautiful day, temperatures perfect, sky blue and cloudless, sunlight slowly filling the streets. I was out before ten to pick up groceries at the local centro comercial, after which I bought a paper and sat down with a cup of espresso for a look at the local version of what's going on in the world. Municipal elections happen May 25th, the campaign season is in high gear, accounting for a huge percentage of current news stories, along with numerous interconnected topics which all feed into the elections. Interesting, unpleasant, fascinating, boring, occasionally entertaining, often not much fun -- all of that in one untidy package. I skim through it, getting the general overview, usually not delving too deeply until I get to the arts sections, where there is right now a bunch of activity relating to the movie world (mostly the current crop of good-looking Spanish films in the wake of the recent Málaga film festival, and of course the publicity blitzkrieg going on for The Matrix Reloaded. (From yesterday's El País: If Matrix made history for pioneering the "bullet time" effect, Reloaded will earn its niche thanks to the Burly brawl sequence (in Spanish: megapelea), the most complicated fight on film to date, in which a lone Neo confronts 100 Agent Smiths, the first application of virtual reality in the real world. Of course, not all the agents were computer-generated -- along with actor Hugo Weaving were 12 fight specialists, whose heads were shaved so that Agent Smith's face could be added digitally, and 20 mannequins.") On the way to café & paper, I stepped out of my building and turned the corner to find myself in the middle of a crowd of 20-25 people, sprawled out across the narrow street, apparently waiting for the Café Buenos Aires to open for business. All looking a bit bleary and rumpled, ranging from 20-somethings to 40-somethings, some still holding partially inhaled cups of beer or drinks of a heavier-duty variety. Most talking in far more animated fashion than I would be capable of after a night without sleep, standing contentedly in the morning sunlight. When I passed by a second time, post-café, about the half the group remained, most sitting on the curb or the café's steps, their Friday night still underway. A glance out in the window in that direction a little more than an hour ago showed that same group still there, all sitting in front the café, soaking up the sunlight as they talked. I just looked outside a minute ago to find they'd finally disappeared. The streets of the barrio are busy with people carrying bags of groceries, couples walking hand in hand, the occasional car or scooter shooting past. A cell phone rang, its rendition of the Simpsons theme song rising faintly into the afternoon air, stopping when its owner answered the call. And on the day goes. rws 1:02 PM [+]
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