13 May 2008. Bright sun gleam off tinted window of Ford Windstar, parked on the bias across Solano. Tokens of home. Yesterday: Garcia Lorca at 37,000 feet. En busca del duende. Duende. Afternoons in Oceanside, early 1960s, Ponzi and Yvette. Stories of Barnaby Conrad--the bullring--and the guitars of Eddie Freeman. Lo flamenco. Tuned concert pianos, in Dallas, transcribed jazz off the shortwave during World War II. There wasn't a Spanish dance troupe touring the states that didn't make a pass through his Texas home, long suburban road in late winter, icy wind off the plains, stark branches of the sycamores. A compound--courtyard rooms to the inside, feeling of great warmth. The Oklahoma doctor who drove down every weekend--for the spirit, the comraderie. Crooning masculine voice, the first notes begun with incredible patience--a slowness to life, el descanso. "Relaxed," we might say--but it's not the absence of labour. Rather the way one lifts a glass of wine, holding the liquid steady--igual...
Dicen que por las noches nomas
se le iba en puro llorar...
No comments:
Post a Comment