If I were forced to describe the recent state of this life of mine, I would have to say: not so much a soothing garden party as a jaunt in a burning plane piloted by some head case on acid. Strange, hair-raising twists and turns. Big emotions. With the details of the daily ride designed to cause unrest.
On the other hand, after several days of rain -- spring replaced by a cooler, less user-friendly imposter -- Saturday brought sweet, abundant sunlight and a general lifting of spirits, a state that's remained in place since then. Which I appreciate the hell out of, let me tell you.
Have been slowly working my way through what needs to be done to put my life here on hold for now, wading through it all at an unhurried pace, trusting that I've started far enough ahead of time that the last-minute frenzy will be blessedly light on the frenzy part, or at least not so frenzied that needle on the stress meter slides up into the meatiest part of the red zone.
Several weeks back, the rehab work that's been making its way through -- and literally rebuilding sections of -- this old building for the last 3.6587 years started on a new phase, laborers showing up every morning and working away on external details of the first couple of floors. After a month or so that crew disappeared, producing a brief period of tranquility that ended last Thursday when a different bunch materialized in the hallway outside this flat. Three males with hammers -- partying wildly as they pounding away at ceiling and walls, removing plaster. Producing a massive sea of plaster chips along with clouds of slowly-swirling white dust. For the first day or two, they didn't bother to cloak stairwell or apartment doors, producing an ongoing cascade of white bits, giving the stairwell a stylishly impressive post-earthquake look from this level all the way down to the foyer.
I did not get the entire picture of what the hubbub would mean until I opened the door of the flat to find my welcome mat buried under two or three inches of plaster, chips pushing aggressively into every crack along the bottom of the door. Then glanced back into the flat and realized that dust had been insinuating its way in around the door, saw my footsteps in the pale sheen of powder coating the floor, saw that the bottom of my socks had turned ghostly white. Brief time-out for clean-up, stuffing sheets along door bottom, closing all in-flat doors to minimize dust flow. And even with that, dust sneaks quietly into the living space, turning horizontal surfaces and sock bottoms pallid.
The workers inch their way along -- now on the floor below this one, for which I give sincere thanks -- partying away in the middle of the dust, free of cumbersome protective details like breathing masks, calling back and forth in high-speed Spanish, the youngest of them laughing like a hyena.
Spent some time talking with a friend about all that, about strange endgame happenings with my good-hearted landlords -- an account of which I swear I will provide someday -- about this strange passage of what passes for my life. And when, post-caffeine boost, we'd paid up and stepped out into the cool springtime air of Madrid, we stood talking more, and at some point I noticed a small face staring up at me from the sidewalk. A passport-photo-sized portrait dropped by an unknown individual, its subject gazing skyward -- at me, at my friend, at the legs of anyone walking by. Hair receding and weirdly cut, looking tired, not exactly overjoyed and a touch lost amid the noise and motion of the 3-D world.
There may be a metaphor in there somewhere, but I'm going to spare us all the pain of me digging for it.
Later.
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He is Bonzi!
España, te quiero
rws 11:15 AM [+]
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