My plans to take on a padawan to become a new nomad have been scuttled – for now. The moriae can keep my sister away from the world outside Alabama, but they can’t keep the world away from my sister. The skills will be passed on when they will.
Today was the 30th anniversary of Star Wars, the great mythology of our time and for our time. I watched The Star Wars Holiday Special, generally considered to be the two worst hours of television ever produced. You both need to watch it and need to avoid it – all great mysteries are painful dichotomies.
I have always been interested in the archetype of the ship upon the sea. It was quite pronounced when I was in Gandia, where the Erasmus students and a small smattering of pensioners were the only inhabitants during an 18-degree January (that’s Celsius, ‘mericans) and the port was right there, beautiful, inviting, and playing the strings of latent mysticism. There’s something fascinating about getting on a ship on the river and/or ocean and having it like being on a road that takes you to anywhere around the world. I think I would have been quite fine as a ship captain back in the auld days of exploration. My current dream – the absolute greatest gift that anyone could ever get me, no exceptions – would be a dirigible, preferably in a configuration kind of like what they used in Final Fantasy VI. Around the concept – I don’t remember if it was Dave or Shaun – was created the phrase “Dirigible Pirates of the Sky.” Talks about creating a concept musical act continue.
I am forging my future for my greatest tasks – the German conference, IC, and research abroad – and it’s a heavy but giddy load. I balance it with going to a bodega with Vidar for some San Miguel Extra “Nostrum.” It was only €1,40 per caña. That’s a good price for a pretty good beer. Others went to bingo tonight, they did not contact me. I’m glad, mostly. More important things, like watching the two worst hours of television ever produced.
I must ask, where the hell is the hope from the pre-9/11 days? I’m talking of course about pre-9/11 music, which is personified (or at least “flagshipped”) by the Verve song “Bittersweet Symphony.” You all remember it, and when you listen to it today, you’ll realize just how much our culture has changed around that date. If you still have wax in your heart and mind and brain, then you might want to run not walk over to this webshite.
If you want hot wings, you go to the Anchor Bar (unless it’s Jefferson’s of course). If you want slow-smoked pork ribs, you go to Dreamland. If it’s horchata you’re after, you go to Daniel in Alboraia – which is where I went today after Pepe, Davinia, and I had szechuan chicken en casa and I remarked on the horchata de mierda in the fridge, when they recommended we hightail it about three kilometers to the north to the mecca of chufas. I had the most delicious horchata that probably exists, a mixta which is kind of ice on the verge of melting like a slush-formation, with fartons made on-site and warm. I’ll definitely return before I exit the Kingdom, but if you find yourself stumbling into the Comunitat, make a stop-off at this Ka’aba of Xufa.
I’m currently on the fence about it, but I’m pretty sure I’ll take the plunge to attend the Primavera Sound festival in Barcelona; a quick glance at the lineup will reveal why. Then it’s my only test and the adventure of June.
Lady finger, dipped in moonlight, writing “What for?” across the morning sky,
Sunlight splatters, dawn with answer, darkness shrugs and bids the day goodbye.