I´m writing two things at the same time. I need to do something while I wait for the official news of Cesc´s injury. At the moment, it is said he´ll be sidelined for three months, which means a disaster for the team. But I´m not going ahead of things, I worry when it´s told. Well, I always worry, but more.
I read my first Lorca poem collection on Sunday and started the second yesterday. I loved Romanceros gitanos (Gypsy Romances or something like that in English I assume). I can´t even explain why, it just got to me so much. And my absolute favourite of all the poems was the one about Spain´s gendarmerie. I have no idea what it´s in English or Spanish. And I don´t know why I liked it so much. I just did, all of the poems were amazing. Why haven´t I read them before? Silly me. On a side note, I have to say el gitano is probably one of my favourite Spanish words. I love the way it sounds when pronounced. I had the read the part about gypsies and flamenco on the Spanish book though half of the grammar stuff was beyond me.
Sigh. It´s official, Arsenal are counting Cesc out for four months. Basically, pretty much rest of the season. If we had some thoughts of being able to fight for the title (which, quite frankly, I believe no one had) they are now out of the window, it will be a huge miracle if they get the fourth place of the league. Wenger now needs to buy in January, even more than he needed before. A defensive midfielder, maybe a defender if Gallas is heading out... Rumours are Andrei Arshavin is on his way to London, but I´ll believe when I see it. As much I kind of would like to see him, I just don´t know... Is he able to fill in Cesc´s place, since our strikers are doing pretty fine. When they don´t see red. Gah, all of this just makes me sad and I should be happy because tomorrow is Christmas Eve and all. I will not think about this until Boxing Day. Anyway. Animo Cesc, mucho animo.
I finally typed the novel I wrote in the middle of the night. 428 words. I was surprised. I never thought I could get so much out of myself, especially into a novel, but I did. I´ll post it now. I wouldn´t call it a Christmas present, far from it, but I need comments and ConCrit, I need to know what I can do better. All the mistakes and grammar errors and others are mine, I sure as hell didn´t get up at 3 AM to check how something was written and didn´t bother it with today either. It is repetetive, it is meant to be. I shortened the end from the original one, but I´m not completely happy with it. I might rewrite it third time, but here it is. Tell me what you think.
The blonde will never forget the day and it would be the day to relive over and over again if it were possible. It had been raining all week, but on that day the sun was shining from a clear sky. It was the day the blonde met the brunette.
All the blonde remembers of that day is the brunette. It was supposed to be another regular day filled with work and it probably was. But the blonde won recall it. All the blonde remembers is the brunette, the dark warm eyes, the perfect smile, the sunshine reflecting from the brown curls. That is all the blonde can think of that day.
The day the blonde fell in love with the brunette.
Even before hearing the name of the brunette, even before finding out what kind of character the brunette would be, the blonde was in love.
The blonde thinks the name fits the brunette in a way that cannot be described with words and the brunette carries it with pride. Their characters are the complete opposites and no one ever thought they'd get along for more than five minutes without starting an argument. The blonde is considered to be irresponsible, flamboyant, obstinate, always too self-assuerd. The brunette is considered to be humble, sensible, responsible, everything the blonde isn't thought to be.
The blonde still loves how their personalities are so different though they have both changed. The blonde has become more like the brunette whereas the brunette has learned to love the way the blonde is.
The blonde will never forget when the brunette the entire life the blonde has. The blonde cannot still believe the brunette has chosen to share the deepest thoughts, all the secrets and little things that make life worth living for with the blonde. All the blonde wants is the brunette to be like on the day one, dark warm eyes, the perfect smile, the sunshine reflecting from the brown curls. And to the blonde, the brunette always is. At least has tried to be.
* * *
Sometimes late at night, the brunette gets up just to watch the blonde sleep. The brunette does not understand how it is possible that the blonde still is there, after everything the brunette has said and done, after all the times the brunette has turned into the blonde and hurt the blonde unintentionally so much it seems unforgivable. But the blonde is there, because no matter what the brunette does, the blonde knows that in the end everything will be fine, just like on the first day.
No, it doesn´t have a title because I couldn´t come up with one.
I really don´t have that much today. I´m setting into the Christmas mood, doing nothing but eating and reading and watching movies and a lot of movies. And I´m looking forward to see my Dad as Santa. Should be so much fun. I´ll try to get a picture.
I am trying to cheer myself up and think of everything I should and would do next year. Some might call it day-dreaming, I call it planning. And as I want to be a nice person before I take a Christmas break from Internet and spend time with my family, have this very pretty wintery picture I found while surfing.
So, because I probably won´t be back for a few days... HAVE A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS! Remember to take care of each other. And the last one to leave puts out the candles.
Listening to: Jeff Buckley - Hallelujah
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Federico García Lorca, from a lecture about The Gypsy Ballads (he was reading them in a theater in Barcelona)
“I’ve chosen to read and comment on the Gypsy Ballads not only because this is my most popular work but also because, until now, it is also my most unified one. It’s there that my poetic countenance appears for the first time with its own personality, well drawn and cleansed of contact with other poets. I won’t criticize the book or study what it means as a form of balladry or show the machinery of its images, or graph its rhythmic and phonetic development, but I will show you its sources, the first glimpses of its total conception. Though it’s called “Gypsy” (gitano), the book as a whole is the poem of Andalusia, and I called it “gitano” because the Gypsy is the loftiest, most profound and aristocratic element of my country, the most deeply representative of its mode, the very keeper of the glowing embers, blood, and alphabet of Andalusian and universal truth.
Thus the book is a sort of altar piece of Andalusia, with its gypsies, horses, archangels, planets, its Jewish and Roman breezes, rivers, crimes, the vulgar note of the contrabandistas and the celestial note of the naked children of Cordoba, who poke fun at St. Raphael. A book that hardly expresses visible Andalusia at all, but where hidden Andalusia is trembling. I’ll even say this—the book is anti-folklore, anti-local color, anti-flamenco; contains not one short jacket, suit of lights, wide brimmed hat or Andalusian tambourine; has figures of millennial depths and just one character, Pain, dark and big as the summer sky, who percolates through the bone marrow and the sap of trees and has nothing to do with melancholy, nostalgia, or any other affliction or disease of the soul, being an emotion more heavenly than earthly. Andalusian pain, which is the struggle of the loving intelligence with the mystery that surrounds it. [In the poem about Soledad Montoya, for example, “Ballad of Black Pain”], the Pain of Soledad Montoya is the root of the Andalusian people. It is not anguish, because in pain one can smile, nor does it blind, for it never produces tears. It is a longing without object, a keen love for nothing, with the certainty that death (the eternal care of Andalusia) is breathing behind the door.”
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