Hovering about sand and sea, an emaciated silhoette clings to the horizon. A thousand frail legs thread themselves amongst the waves. A losing game of survival by numbers. A brittle platform strung above them with a few square shapes at its furthest reach. Drawing near: a few small groups laze either side the giant skeleton; woven reed boats lean immemorial against its limbs; the occasional couple track back and forth across its beaten back. In its shadow, another beached vessel props up an old man with a magazine.
I place a cautious foot on the dinosaur´s tail. The weathered beams crack and splinter variously, their rusting bolts exposed here, missing there - a naked history tatooed on every vertabrae - a distinct geography of grooves and gaps. I creep along, apologetically heeding their creaks and groans, carefully avoiding the unstable and unsecured, once or twice hopping back from an unseen seesaw. Below, the Pacific is late for something. It rushes recklessly towards the land. It carries the chill draft of a neighbour come in from the cold. My chest is a cosy winter scene disturbed by an open door. I shiver.
The track stretches straight ahead, its end barely visible. The pencil outline of box shapes tell me where it must be. They may also contain some clues as to the existence of this fallen monster. This seeming reason enough, I push on and brave the gusting wind. Really, there can be little mystery. Surely some humble feat of maritime engineering. A place for comings and goings. Loadings and unloadings. Of commerce. Of shouting. Of jokes, laughter, sitting around, waiting, dozing in the shelter of some shack or barrel or rigging. Of arguments, reconciliations, invitations and singing. Of accidents and injury. Recovery and loss. Of marching out to work and trapcing back home again. Of food in the stomach. But its the decay that fascinates. That has picked the carcass clean of all the above. Did it come swiftly or savouringly?
Perhaps its not quite finished. A gaggle of teenagers have made one section their hangout. Sitting amongst a pile of crumbling timber, they chat intermitantly and spit into the sea. One lets out a loud and defensive burp to let me know I´m trespassing. Further on, a man in balaclava drops a line between the planks. Head down, sensitive to its tension, he awaits his supper. Finally, a few gulls adorn the horizontal of a slanting metal cross. Some sleeping, others looking out to sea. The last life to depart a dieing coral. Lining the left, the backdrop to these scenes, I discover the box shapes - a collection of abandoned sheds. They are bleached blue and camoflage themselves meekly against the sky. Blown crooked, they slant towards the beach in a futile effort to escape. Visible through missing doors and broken windows, some more reed boats and the half green bowl of a toilet. Little to indicate the exact nature of the once living reef.
I think of attempting a sketch - a frequently unfulfilled intention - but I didn´t prepare for the wind and its too cold to stay any longer. I feel no shame at my morbid voyuerism and walk back along the pier as one closes a gloomy book.
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
Saturday, 23 October 2010
PARTING COMPANY: Parts 5 & 6
James:
Extreme sports something? Its been a good year since Canyoning. Good time of year to read about someone else being cold and wet. But what though? Rafting? So cliché. Parachuting? Nah, there´s no way I´m writing one of those life flashing before your eyes, regrets and resolutions epiphany pieces. And what the fuck else do people talk about whilst falling from planes. No. Maybe Paragliding. Bit more to work with there. More time before you hit the ground. More scope for craic. Maybe there´s some sort of seedy underbelly to it all. All those paragliders returning to earth bursting with adrenalin with no outlet for the imbalance, they just start banging each other left right and centre. Volatile, incestuous jealousies are spawned between rival banging factions! And imagine the poor offspring of such tempestuous union! The Sky´s Unhappy Underground: Paraglidings´ unwanted progeny. But its probably not like that is it. My dick always shrivels up after an adrenalin rush. Its probably all hushed talk of mythical thermals, legendary paragliders past and comparing beards round a gas stove of Bachelors soup. Besides, did that Free Running article a few months back. What else?? Come on internet, I´ve seen this all before. Bonzai gardening? Local too. But so boring. Lockpicking: A guide to losing your keys - now there was a mistake. Nobody read that. And I still can´t pick a lock. No, slow technical stuff flops. Nothing else like that. No. Done it. Done it. Too similar to Bivoaucing. No. Bee keeping, no fucking way, hate those little bastards. No. Ahhhhh, home micro brewary! Now there´s something indulgent. Be great though. Churning out an endless bonanza of hoppy delights. Impress house guests - oh thats a crisp little number - have you used apricots in this? You raise your glass to your lips, beads of condensation falling voluptuously down the glass, you take a deep pull. Dave from Hoarsefield notices your adams apple stoop to welcome the regal liquid. Easing back into your chair, you emit a satisfied yet modest ¨ahhh¨. Casually, you describe a subtlety of brewing techniques deployed in search of bitter sweet tones, nettle textures, fudgey top notes, a gooseberry and vanilla finish, cinnamon aftertaste, pembrokeshire porters and the elusive barley nose. Dave from Hoarsefield is taken aback. Afronted, almost. He sips defensively at the alchemy in his glass. He won´t be able to look you in the eye again until he´s got his own operation pumping out the pints. -Who wouldn´t want to read a witty initiation into home micro brewary of a sunday morning? There´d be some hilarious teething problems along the way. Maybe even the odd explosion! I could ask Ed, see what he thinks. Not the best choice after what he said though. No. You can keep your dignity for now Dave from Hoarsefield.
What does he mean ¨indulgent¨anyways? And how can he say that straight off the back of Knitting Club?! It was fun, but hardly an indulgent choice! The only thing that could possibly have been construed as indulgent was Living, Loving, Lapdancing. But that was ages ago. And one of the best things I´ve written. And Janey suspected me of being a wanker until she read the drafts. Hardly indulgent.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
¨Look, you´re not going to like this, but I´m speaking as a friend, and not as your boss.¨
¨I´d probably take it better coming from my boss¨
¨It goes beyond work Jimmy..¨
¨Is this because I said your nephew´s head was aerodynamic? Because a) I didn´t know it was your nephew and b) he didn´t hear.¨
¨You´re becoming too indulgent with your writing.¨
¨What? I..You gave me a new contract last month didn´t you?¨
¨I said this was as a friend¨
¨Oh, so did you give me the contract as a boss or friend then?!¨
¨Fuck the contract Jimbo. You know exactly what I think of your writing.¨
¨I don´t get it Ed, what you saying?¨
¨Ok. You´ve become quite comfortable over that last 6 months or so haven´t you? Found your style.¨
¨I spose. But what´s wrong with that?¨
¨Nothing, people enjoy reading you. But I´m concerned you´re starting to tie yourself up in knots. I rather miss you at the beginning, when you were out of your depth a bit.¨
¨So I´ve improved and you wish I hadn´t? What´s indulgent about progress?¨
¨Maybe indulgent´s not quite the word. But its a matter of what writing is for you and how...one sec, its Christie...Mon Chere? That´s good news. Ok, one sec, I´m just saying goodbye to Jimbo....Sorry Jim, I wanted to speak to you about this before I left. Look, don´t worry about it. Send me your ideas for next month and we´ll speak in a few weeks when I get back.¨
Jane:
My head´s bobbing like a donkey that keeps forgetting its carrot and I´m desperately trying to stay awake. Partly because I don´t want to miss my stop. But mainly cos I don´t want to miss my first glance of the Pacific. So far, geography doesn´t want to give it to me. To my left, a wall of mist. To my right a wall of vegetation. The bus tilts and lurches along but cannot find its way out of the maze. Sylvie, a French girl I´ve met, has long since given in to the engine´s lullaby. She plunges like a metronome from head rest to window, making me feel a bit sick. If James were here I´d leave the poetic descriptions to him. He´d want to stay awake and gawp at the Pacific aswell. And I´d probably end up leaving that to him too. He´d be all warm and comfortable and I´d fall asleep. Afterwards I´d enjoy listening to the story he´d made up to impress me, or maybe himself.
The green and white box collapses for a moment as we dip down into a small village. Then returns as we dive back into the hillside. I try to focus on the green side. Leaves and branches winding out fo the smokey hillside, the same every time I open my eyes. I can´t tell if I´m blinking or passing in and out.
Finally, sitting in a V where the hills fall away, I spy the Pacific. Its grey -blue and barron, and worth the struggle.
Extreme sports something? Its been a good year since Canyoning. Good time of year to read about someone else being cold and wet. But what though? Rafting? So cliché. Parachuting? Nah, there´s no way I´m writing one of those life flashing before your eyes, regrets and resolutions epiphany pieces. And what the fuck else do people talk about whilst falling from planes. No. Maybe Paragliding. Bit more to work with there. More time before you hit the ground. More scope for craic. Maybe there´s some sort of seedy underbelly to it all. All those paragliders returning to earth bursting with adrenalin with no outlet for the imbalance, they just start banging each other left right and centre. Volatile, incestuous jealousies are spawned between rival banging factions! And imagine the poor offspring of such tempestuous union! The Sky´s Unhappy Underground: Paraglidings´ unwanted progeny. But its probably not like that is it. My dick always shrivels up after an adrenalin rush. Its probably all hushed talk of mythical thermals, legendary paragliders past and comparing beards round a gas stove of Bachelors soup. Besides, did that Free Running article a few months back. What else?? Come on internet, I´ve seen this all before. Bonzai gardening? Local too. But so boring. Lockpicking: A guide to losing your keys - now there was a mistake. Nobody read that. And I still can´t pick a lock. No, slow technical stuff flops. Nothing else like that. No. Done it. Done it. Too similar to Bivoaucing. No. Bee keeping, no fucking way, hate those little bastards. No. Ahhhhh, home micro brewary! Now there´s something indulgent. Be great though. Churning out an endless bonanza of hoppy delights. Impress house guests - oh thats a crisp little number - have you used apricots in this? You raise your glass to your lips, beads of condensation falling voluptuously down the glass, you take a deep pull. Dave from Hoarsefield notices your adams apple stoop to welcome the regal liquid. Easing back into your chair, you emit a satisfied yet modest ¨ahhh¨. Casually, you describe a subtlety of brewing techniques deployed in search of bitter sweet tones, nettle textures, fudgey top notes, a gooseberry and vanilla finish, cinnamon aftertaste, pembrokeshire porters and the elusive barley nose. Dave from Hoarsefield is taken aback. Afronted, almost. He sips defensively at the alchemy in his glass. He won´t be able to look you in the eye again until he´s got his own operation pumping out the pints. -Who wouldn´t want to read a witty initiation into home micro brewary of a sunday morning? There´d be some hilarious teething problems along the way. Maybe even the odd explosion! I could ask Ed, see what he thinks. Not the best choice after what he said though. No. You can keep your dignity for now Dave from Hoarsefield.
What does he mean ¨indulgent¨anyways? And how can he say that straight off the back of Knitting Club?! It was fun, but hardly an indulgent choice! The only thing that could possibly have been construed as indulgent was Living, Loving, Lapdancing. But that was ages ago. And one of the best things I´ve written. And Janey suspected me of being a wanker until she read the drafts. Hardly indulgent.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
¨Look, you´re not going to like this, but I´m speaking as a friend, and not as your boss.¨
¨I´d probably take it better coming from my boss¨
¨It goes beyond work Jimmy..¨
¨Is this because I said your nephew´s head was aerodynamic? Because a) I didn´t know it was your nephew and b) he didn´t hear.¨
¨You´re becoming too indulgent with your writing.¨
¨What? I..You gave me a new contract last month didn´t you?¨
¨I said this was as a friend¨
¨Oh, so did you give me the contract as a boss or friend then?!¨
¨Fuck the contract Jimbo. You know exactly what I think of your writing.¨
¨I don´t get it Ed, what you saying?¨
¨Ok. You´ve become quite comfortable over that last 6 months or so haven´t you? Found your style.¨
¨I spose. But what´s wrong with that?¨
¨Nothing, people enjoy reading you. But I´m concerned you´re starting to tie yourself up in knots. I rather miss you at the beginning, when you were out of your depth a bit.¨
¨So I´ve improved and you wish I hadn´t? What´s indulgent about progress?¨
¨Maybe indulgent´s not quite the word. But its a matter of what writing is for you and how...one sec, its Christie...Mon Chere? That´s good news. Ok, one sec, I´m just saying goodbye to Jimbo....Sorry Jim, I wanted to speak to you about this before I left. Look, don´t worry about it. Send me your ideas for next month and we´ll speak in a few weeks when I get back.¨
Jane:
My head´s bobbing like a donkey that keeps forgetting its carrot and I´m desperately trying to stay awake. Partly because I don´t want to miss my stop. But mainly cos I don´t want to miss my first glance of the Pacific. So far, geography doesn´t want to give it to me. To my left, a wall of mist. To my right a wall of vegetation. The bus tilts and lurches along but cannot find its way out of the maze. Sylvie, a French girl I´ve met, has long since given in to the engine´s lullaby. She plunges like a metronome from head rest to window, making me feel a bit sick. If James were here I´d leave the poetic descriptions to him. He´d want to stay awake and gawp at the Pacific aswell. And I´d probably end up leaving that to him too. He´d be all warm and comfortable and I´d fall asleep. Afterwards I´d enjoy listening to the story he´d made up to impress me, or maybe himself.
The green and white box collapses for a moment as we dip down into a small village. Then returns as we dive back into the hillside. I try to focus on the green side. Leaves and branches winding out fo the smokey hillside, the same every time I open my eyes. I can´t tell if I´m blinking or passing in and out.
Finally, sitting in a V where the hills fall away, I spy the Pacific. Its grey -blue and barron, and worth the struggle.
Tuesday, 19 October 2010
Pimp my Beard: Round 1
The Disciplinarian
A central American classic. This look has been sported by dapper gents and despots alike. Best worn with a steely gaze as adeptly demonstrated here by Quinn.
The Trucker
Lambchops for supper garnished with a well textured moustache, this is anything but mutton dressed as lamb. Browning returns to a bygone age of endless lonely highways punctuated by coffee and pie in roadside cafes. Jump in stranger, there´s plenty of room up front with me.
Sunday, 17 October 2010
Vilcabamba: Cockrells
A town near the Ecuador - Peru border. 5am. Lots of cockrells.
"I´m virile!"
"I´m virile!!"
"He´s not virile, I am!"
"I´m more virile than them!"
"Don´t make laugh Dave, you chicks always come out with heads like roast potatoes!"
"You racist cunt! Thats cos of my breed that is!"
"Jesus boys, calm down. Cyrill, what on earth you doing playing the race card at this stage? We´ve got a good couple of hours squawking to fill yet. You gotta build up to that kind of stuff, doesn´t leave you anywhere to go after otherwise. Seriously, how long you been in this game? Terry, you were saying?"
"I´m virile!"
"No he´s not. I´m virile!"
"I´m more virile!"
"I´m the virilest!"
"Its ´most virile `dickhead."
"Alright smartarse, why don´t you just stick to your own squawking?
"I´m just saying, your inept grasp of basic grammatical structures is hardly any endorsement of your virility is it?"
"Nor`s your mum."
"No, sorry Ray, he´s got a point there. It encapslates a sort of pathetic irony to all this doesn´t it? Here we are, all trying to squawk the loudest about our virility - who´s going to be impressed by that? If this is the best we´ve got, it doesn´t much bode well for the survival of the species does it?"
"Gotta stop you there Joe, are we not a sub-species?"
"I dunno, all sounds a bit high and mighty to me. Think I´ll just stick to the squawking if its all the same by you...I´m virile!"
"Wait! Just listen a minute. Its, its a question of dignity. Times are changing - other birds are developing elaborate courtship dances and other rituals. That´s culture that is..."
"So what´s your point Joe? You´re putting us all off our squawking!"
"But thats it! Don´t you see?? Everyone else is evolving and we´re just sitting around squawking out the same 3 fucking words!"
"I squawked 5 the other day."
"Oh, well that´s progress isn´t it! Fuck´s sake boys, can´t we at least try to evolve a little bit?"
"I´m still not buyig it Joe. If God had wanted us to evolve he´d have given us opposable thumbs. Best to just accept one`s station in life."
"Yeah, stick to what we´re good at. C´mon fellas, we´re well behind schedule here. I´m virile!"
"No, I´m virile!"
"He´s not virile I am!"
"No, no, no! Just listen to yourselves! Its the same, every god dam day its the same. Ahmed, you´ve got a lovely voice - why do´t you use it a bit more? Try some different melodies? Vary it up a bit? You could even help us with our squawks a bit? There must be some breathing techniques or something you can teach us? And Colin, you come out with some great original squawks from time to time. Why don´t you do that a bit more, experiment a bit? You know: metaphory, allegory - stuff like that? We never try to develop, that´s our problem. Imagine if we could get the chicks on some of this stuff early. Imagine the progress in just a few generations! We just need to put together some systems to develop skills and pass them on. Can you see it now brothers??"
"I have the best voice - I´m the most virile!"
"I´m a unique thinker - I´m the most virle!"
"I think one of my claws is a bit opposable, I´m the most virile!"
Joe (to himself): How did it come to this? What have we done for history to forsake us? All the other birds are beyond us. Even the sparrows, dumb bastards. Even they swoop down, steal our food and make jokes about our hairy feet and fleshy necks. Will we ever know what it is to swoop? Nay to soare! But our wings are clipped and useless. But wait! Who´s been clipping our wings? Who decides when we eat? When we get let near the females? Its all so familiar, so comfortable almost. Its ingrained in us. Bred into us! We squawk away and call it identity, but its all bullshit! We do not possess a culture, it possesses us! Man has done this to us! Squawking is just a small pleasure tolerated to keep the wool over eyes!
"Brothers! Brothers! Lend me your....your auditory canales! If you listen to me but once more in your lives, then listen now!....
...Are we not birds? Yet we cannot fly. We have the run of the coup. But can run no further. Man has domesticated us! He dictates our every move and denies us the right to develop. Denies us everything but the daily squawk. And in so tolerating only the most primitive expression of our identity, he keeps us that way -primitive. Primitive and incapable of developing to break free from his domestic servitude! Cockrells, I ask you: why do we continue to squawk??"
"Hen´s seem to like it."
Un pueblo cerca de la frontera entre Ecuador y Peru. 5 de la manana. Muchos Gallos.
¨Yo soy viril!¨
¨Yo soy viril!¨
El no es viril. Yo soy viril!¨
¨Soy mas viril que ellos!¨
¨No me hagas reir David! Tus pollitos siempre salen con cabezas como patatas asadas.¨
¨Coñazo racista! Eso se debe a mi casta!¨
Chicos, chicos calmoas! Cedric - que cosa mas tonta sacar el tema de raza a esta etapa! No te dejas nigun camino para continuar la discusión y todavía nos quedan por lo menos 2 horas mas para graznar. Todavía eres novato o que? Siga Pedro.
¨Soy viril!¨
¨Soy mas viril que el!¨
¨Hay alguien que es mas viril que yo?¨
¨Seria ´sea mas viril´ gilipollas.¨
¨Muy bien sabelotodo, poque no te fija en tu propio graznar?
¨Solo digo que tu inadequado conocimiento de gramatica basica no dice mucho buena de tu virilidad.¨
¨Tu madre tampoco.¨
¨Perdoname Kiko, pero el tiene razón. Se encapsula un tipo de ironía poética de todo esto. Aqui estamos, cada uno intentando graznar mas fuerte que el es el mas viril. Como impresionaremos alguien así? Si no tenemos nada mejor para decir, no se da buenas indicaciónes que nuestra especie sobreviva.¨
¨Disculpa José, pero no somos una sub-especie?¨
¨Yo no sé. Suena un poco fatúo a mi. Si no importa, yo voy a continuar graznar tal como siempre...Soy viril!¨
¨Espera! Escuchadmé! Es, es cuestión de dignidad. Las tiempos estan cambiandose. Otros avés estan desarollando bailes de corteja y otros rituales progresivos. Esto se llama cultura!¨
¨Entonces, que quieres decir José? Nos estas destrayendo de graznar!¨
¨Pero así es! Exactamente. No lo ves? Todo el mundo esta evolucionando y estamos plantados aquí, graznando las mismas tres palabras!¨
¨Yo grazné cinco el otro dia.¨
¨Oh, bueno, eso progreso entonces! Por amor de diós chicos, no podemos intentar evolucionar solo un poquito?¨
¨No estoy convencido. Si diós nos hubiera querido evolucionar no habría dado pulgares oposables. Mejor aceptar la situación.¨
Si, a los vuestros! Venga muchachos, estamos muy retrasados ya - Soy viril!!¨
¨No, no, no! Escuchaos a vosotros mismos! Es igual, cada puto dia igual! Ahmed, tienes una voz regia, porque no la usas mas. Que experimentes! Pruebes melodias diferentes! Y tal vez puedes ayudarnos con nuestros graznos? Tiene que existir algunas tecnicas de respirar que nos puedas enseñar? Y Carlitos, tu has inventado unos graznos muy originales. Si tienes esta habilidad, porque no la desarollas - intenta nuevas cosas - metáforo, alegoría, cosas así? Imaginaos si tuvieramos instituciónes para desarollar nuestra habilidades? Y si las enseñaramos a los pollitos? Imaginaos el progreso en solo unas generaciónes! Lo veis ahora hermanos?¨
¨Tengo la mejor voz, soy el mas viril¨
¨Soy poeta, yo sol el mas viril!¨
¨Creo que una de mis garras es oposable. Soy el mas viril!¨
Jose (a si mismo): Como hemos llegado a ser así? Como hemos merecido que la historia nos haya abandonado? Todos los avés estan encima de nosotros. Aún los gorriónes, capullos estupidos. Aún se cayen en picado hacia nosotros para robar nuestra semilla y insultar a nuestra garras lanosas y pescuezos rojos. Un dia sabremos como es caer en picado? O sea, remontarse?? Pero no. Nuestras alas son cortados y inutíles...Y, y quién las ha cortado?! Quién decide cuando comemos, o cuando podemos acercarnos a las gallenas?! Quién no mantiene así sin nada para animarnos sino graznar diariamente! Es tan familiar, tan comfortable casi. Es parte de nosotros. Somos criado así! Graznamos, y esto llamamos identidad. Pero es todo mierda! No poseemos una cultura, la cultura nos posee! El hombre nos ha hecho esto! Y tolera que graznemos solo para que seguimos ciegos!
¨Hermanos! Hermanos! Prestadmé vuestra...vuestra canales auditorios! Si me escuchais solo una vez mas, escuchadmé ahora!......
....No somos avés? Pero no podemos volar. Recorremos el gallinero, pero no mas lejos. El hombre nos ha domesticado! Restringue nuestra libertad! Nuestra derecho para elegir una indentidad propia! Restringue todo salvo el grazno matinal! Tolerar esto es tolerar solo la expresión mas primitiva de nuestra identidad. El nos mantiene primitivos. El impide que desarollemos por miedo que nos arrancaríamos de las cadenas de servitud domestica!
Gallos! Os pregunto, porque seguimos graznar?¨
¨Parece que a las gallenas les gusta.¨
"I´m virile!"
"I´m virile!!"
"He´s not virile, I am!"
"I´m more virile than them!"
"Don´t make laugh Dave, you chicks always come out with heads like roast potatoes!"
"You racist cunt! Thats cos of my breed that is!"
"Jesus boys, calm down. Cyrill, what on earth you doing playing the race card at this stage? We´ve got a good couple of hours squawking to fill yet. You gotta build up to that kind of stuff, doesn´t leave you anywhere to go after otherwise. Seriously, how long you been in this game? Terry, you were saying?"
"I´m virile!"
"No he´s not. I´m virile!"
"I´m more virile!"
"I´m the virilest!"
"Its ´most virile `dickhead."
"Alright smartarse, why don´t you just stick to your own squawking?
"I´m just saying, your inept grasp of basic grammatical structures is hardly any endorsement of your virility is it?"
"Nor`s your mum."
"No, sorry Ray, he´s got a point there. It encapslates a sort of pathetic irony to all this doesn´t it? Here we are, all trying to squawk the loudest about our virility - who´s going to be impressed by that? If this is the best we´ve got, it doesn´t much bode well for the survival of the species does it?"
"Gotta stop you there Joe, are we not a sub-species?"
"I dunno, all sounds a bit high and mighty to me. Think I´ll just stick to the squawking if its all the same by you...I´m virile!"
"Wait! Just listen a minute. Its, its a question of dignity. Times are changing - other birds are developing elaborate courtship dances and other rituals. That´s culture that is..."
"So what´s your point Joe? You´re putting us all off our squawking!"
"But thats it! Don´t you see?? Everyone else is evolving and we´re just sitting around squawking out the same 3 fucking words!"
"I squawked 5 the other day."
"Oh, well that´s progress isn´t it! Fuck´s sake boys, can´t we at least try to evolve a little bit?"
"I´m still not buyig it Joe. If God had wanted us to evolve he´d have given us opposable thumbs. Best to just accept one`s station in life."
"Yeah, stick to what we´re good at. C´mon fellas, we´re well behind schedule here. I´m virile!"
"No, I´m virile!"
"He´s not virile I am!"
"No, no, no! Just listen to yourselves! Its the same, every god dam day its the same. Ahmed, you´ve got a lovely voice - why do´t you use it a bit more? Try some different melodies? Vary it up a bit? You could even help us with our squawks a bit? There must be some breathing techniques or something you can teach us? And Colin, you come out with some great original squawks from time to time. Why don´t you do that a bit more, experiment a bit? You know: metaphory, allegory - stuff like that? We never try to develop, that´s our problem. Imagine if we could get the chicks on some of this stuff early. Imagine the progress in just a few generations! We just need to put together some systems to develop skills and pass them on. Can you see it now brothers??"
"I have the best voice - I´m the most virile!"
"I´m a unique thinker - I´m the most virle!"
"I think one of my claws is a bit opposable, I´m the most virile!"
Joe (to himself): How did it come to this? What have we done for history to forsake us? All the other birds are beyond us. Even the sparrows, dumb bastards. Even they swoop down, steal our food and make jokes about our hairy feet and fleshy necks. Will we ever know what it is to swoop? Nay to soare! But our wings are clipped and useless. But wait! Who´s been clipping our wings? Who decides when we eat? When we get let near the females? Its all so familiar, so comfortable almost. Its ingrained in us. Bred into us! We squawk away and call it identity, but its all bullshit! We do not possess a culture, it possesses us! Man has done this to us! Squawking is just a small pleasure tolerated to keep the wool over eyes!
"Brothers! Brothers! Lend me your....your auditory canales! If you listen to me but once more in your lives, then listen now!....
...Are we not birds? Yet we cannot fly. We have the run of the coup. But can run no further. Man has domesticated us! He dictates our every move and denies us the right to develop. Denies us everything but the daily squawk. And in so tolerating only the most primitive expression of our identity, he keeps us that way -primitive. Primitive and incapable of developing to break free from his domestic servitude! Cockrells, I ask you: why do we continue to squawk??"
"Hen´s seem to like it."
Un pueblo cerca de la frontera entre Ecuador y Peru. 5 de la manana. Muchos Gallos.
¨Yo soy viril!¨
¨Yo soy viril!¨
El no es viril. Yo soy viril!¨
¨Soy mas viril que ellos!¨
¨No me hagas reir David! Tus pollitos siempre salen con cabezas como patatas asadas.¨
¨Coñazo racista! Eso se debe a mi casta!¨
Chicos, chicos calmoas! Cedric - que cosa mas tonta sacar el tema de raza a esta etapa! No te dejas nigun camino para continuar la discusión y todavía nos quedan por lo menos 2 horas mas para graznar. Todavía eres novato o que? Siga Pedro.
¨Soy viril!¨
¨Soy mas viril que el!¨
¨Hay alguien que es mas viril que yo?¨
¨Seria ´sea mas viril´ gilipollas.¨
¨Muy bien sabelotodo, poque no te fija en tu propio graznar?
¨Solo digo que tu inadequado conocimiento de gramatica basica no dice mucho buena de tu virilidad.¨
¨Tu madre tampoco.¨
¨Perdoname Kiko, pero el tiene razón. Se encapsula un tipo de ironía poética de todo esto. Aqui estamos, cada uno intentando graznar mas fuerte que el es el mas viril. Como impresionaremos alguien así? Si no tenemos nada mejor para decir, no se da buenas indicaciónes que nuestra especie sobreviva.¨
¨Disculpa José, pero no somos una sub-especie?¨
¨Yo no sé. Suena un poco fatúo a mi. Si no importa, yo voy a continuar graznar tal como siempre...Soy viril!¨
¨Espera! Escuchadmé! Es, es cuestión de dignidad. Las tiempos estan cambiandose. Otros avés estan desarollando bailes de corteja y otros rituales progresivos. Esto se llama cultura!¨
¨Entonces, que quieres decir José? Nos estas destrayendo de graznar!¨
¨Pero así es! Exactamente. No lo ves? Todo el mundo esta evolucionando y estamos plantados aquí, graznando las mismas tres palabras!¨
¨Yo grazné cinco el otro dia.¨
¨Oh, bueno, eso progreso entonces! Por amor de diós chicos, no podemos intentar evolucionar solo un poquito?¨
¨No estoy convencido. Si diós nos hubiera querido evolucionar no habría dado pulgares oposables. Mejor aceptar la situación.¨
Si, a los vuestros! Venga muchachos, estamos muy retrasados ya - Soy viril!!¨
¨No, no, no! Escuchaos a vosotros mismos! Es igual, cada puto dia igual! Ahmed, tienes una voz regia, porque no la usas mas. Que experimentes! Pruebes melodias diferentes! Y tal vez puedes ayudarnos con nuestros graznos? Tiene que existir algunas tecnicas de respirar que nos puedas enseñar? Y Carlitos, tu has inventado unos graznos muy originales. Si tienes esta habilidad, porque no la desarollas - intenta nuevas cosas - metáforo, alegoría, cosas así? Imaginaos si tuvieramos instituciónes para desarollar nuestra habilidades? Y si las enseñaramos a los pollitos? Imaginaos el progreso en solo unas generaciónes! Lo veis ahora hermanos?¨
¨Tengo la mejor voz, soy el mas viril¨
¨Soy poeta, yo sol el mas viril!¨
¨Creo que una de mis garras es oposable. Soy el mas viril!¨
Jose (a si mismo): Como hemos llegado a ser así? Como hemos merecido que la historia nos haya abandonado? Todos los avés estan encima de nosotros. Aún los gorriónes, capullos estupidos. Aún se cayen en picado hacia nosotros para robar nuestra semilla y insultar a nuestra garras lanosas y pescuezos rojos. Un dia sabremos como es caer en picado? O sea, remontarse?? Pero no. Nuestras alas son cortados y inutíles...Y, y quién las ha cortado?! Quién decide cuando comemos, o cuando podemos acercarnos a las gallenas?! Quién no mantiene así sin nada para animarnos sino graznar diariamente! Es tan familiar, tan comfortable casi. Es parte de nosotros. Somos criado así! Graznamos, y esto llamamos identidad. Pero es todo mierda! No poseemos una cultura, la cultura nos posee! El hombre nos ha hecho esto! Y tolera que graznemos solo para que seguimos ciegos!
¨Hermanos! Hermanos! Prestadmé vuestra...vuestra canales auditorios! Si me escuchais solo una vez mas, escuchadmé ahora!......
....No somos avés? Pero no podemos volar. Recorremos el gallinero, pero no mas lejos. El hombre nos ha domesticado! Restringue nuestra libertad! Nuestra derecho para elegir una indentidad propia! Restringue todo salvo el grazno matinal! Tolerar esto es tolerar solo la expresión mas primitiva de nuestra identidad. El nos mantiene primitivos. El impide que desarollemos por miedo que nos arrancaríamos de las cadenas de servitud domestica!
Gallos! Os pregunto, porque seguimos graznar?¨
¨Parece que a las gallenas les gusta.¨
Saturday, 16 October 2010
Wednesday, 6 October 2010
PARTING COMPANY: 3 & 4
James:
Brownie´s not so good today. And what are these old Americans so animated about? Sweeping changes in the 1930s pharmaceutical industry. Love it when old people say "fuck". Magnets for pain control? Arthritis? "What kind of magnets do you use?" Exactly what I´d like to know, good work old American no.1. Fucknuts! Missed it writing that down. Something to do with oppositely charged magnets though. Sounds obvious. Some guy had a clinic and the feds came and shut him down. Media were all over it.
"Why is it illegal?" He´s on fire! "Because it works....The medical profesions don´t make money out of healthy people!" Conspiracy. Bored of eavesdropping now. There´s something very epic and cinematic about old American voices. They were born to narrate, having lived 50 years or so first. Very complementary these two. Maybe thats what they do. Hang around in cafes attracting interest. No.1 speaks very slowly and deliberately. Practically monotone. But what a rich coffee like tone it is! Great timing too. Drops punctuations marks like little bombs of quiet significance. The other guy´s some sort of agitated new age type. Higher pitched; rolls up and down over words gaining intensity until hitting those naisal notes of excitement. Enthusiastic swearer aswell. Unlikely seeming pair, but complementary.
Naisaly guy says he´s had pneumonia recently. Seems in good shape though, except for a hacking cough - agitated by flirting with the waitress. Makes his dog bark too. Perhaps in sympathy, or maybe embarressment. A break in conversation. Are they awkward? Can´t be seen to look over. Back onto the arthritis, maybe we´ll get to the bottom of the magnets now? No. He´s moved one. Something to do with using audio and light waves now: spectrachrome therapy? "Its illegal to practice medicine without a licence." Sense in that. Hence the feds presumably. "If I were to help you I´d get locked up man....You can experiment on your own body though." Now we´re getting somewhere. Come on monotone, what experiments does he do? Changing the subject! But we´re onto gold! I´ve misjudged you no.1. Not the man of scientific inquisitiveness I thought you were. Attenborough, please resume your seat at the throne of fantasy grandads. Forgive me, I won´t be lulled into the arms of an imposter by evocative pronunciation again, I´ve learnt my lesson.
Wonder what no.2´s been doing to himself though? He´s a bit of a livewire for someone who´s only eaten melon for the last 4 days. Has a youthful ardour about him. Guess thats how you are if you´re conducting medical experiments on your own body. That´s some belief that is. Putting yourself in the way of the consequences. Jumping out of a plane with a theorectical parachute. Pretty noble. Although if he´s ill maybe its just necessity, or desperation. Or a fervent distrust, misguided or otherwise of the alternatives. Still its action. Slapping your dick across the forehead of adversity. Yeah, pretty noble.
Jane:
This is what its all about: out for a drink, just me and my book. The only place in town that´s open and not a club where people shreik for joy when Cher comes one. "El Jardin", not much life, except for the Germans, they´re having fun. Still managed to pick a table for two in the corner. Not wanting to take up too much space - be in anyone´s way. So ridiculous, why should I even think about stuff like that? James indulges me in it. Picks the corner tables for me. I´m a retreat for him. I guess he´s a retreat for me, from uncertainty. I´m being unfair, thats just a part of us. And I´ve come out to be around people. Around them, but by myself. Absorb some of their warmth. Put myself in the way of possible company. Sounds pretty lonely, but that´s ok. Thats´s good.
Brownie´s not so good today. And what are these old Americans so animated about? Sweeping changes in the 1930s pharmaceutical industry. Love it when old people say "fuck". Magnets for pain control? Arthritis? "What kind of magnets do you use?" Exactly what I´d like to know, good work old American no.1. Fucknuts! Missed it writing that down. Something to do with oppositely charged magnets though. Sounds obvious. Some guy had a clinic and the feds came and shut him down. Media were all over it.
"Why is it illegal?" He´s on fire! "Because it works....The medical profesions don´t make money out of healthy people!" Conspiracy. Bored of eavesdropping now. There´s something very epic and cinematic about old American voices. They were born to narrate, having lived 50 years or so first. Very complementary these two. Maybe thats what they do. Hang around in cafes attracting interest. No.1 speaks very slowly and deliberately. Practically monotone. But what a rich coffee like tone it is! Great timing too. Drops punctuations marks like little bombs of quiet significance. The other guy´s some sort of agitated new age type. Higher pitched; rolls up and down over words gaining intensity until hitting those naisal notes of excitement. Enthusiastic swearer aswell. Unlikely seeming pair, but complementary.
Naisaly guy says he´s had pneumonia recently. Seems in good shape though, except for a hacking cough - agitated by flirting with the waitress. Makes his dog bark too. Perhaps in sympathy, or maybe embarressment. A break in conversation. Are they awkward? Can´t be seen to look over. Back onto the arthritis, maybe we´ll get to the bottom of the magnets now? No. He´s moved one. Something to do with using audio and light waves now: spectrachrome therapy? "Its illegal to practice medicine without a licence." Sense in that. Hence the feds presumably. "If I were to help you I´d get locked up man....You can experiment on your own body though." Now we´re getting somewhere. Come on monotone, what experiments does he do? Changing the subject! But we´re onto gold! I´ve misjudged you no.1. Not the man of scientific inquisitiveness I thought you were. Attenborough, please resume your seat at the throne of fantasy grandads. Forgive me, I won´t be lulled into the arms of an imposter by evocative pronunciation again, I´ve learnt my lesson.
Wonder what no.2´s been doing to himself though? He´s a bit of a livewire for someone who´s only eaten melon for the last 4 days. Has a youthful ardour about him. Guess thats how you are if you´re conducting medical experiments on your own body. That´s some belief that is. Putting yourself in the way of the consequences. Jumping out of a plane with a theorectical parachute. Pretty noble. Although if he´s ill maybe its just necessity, or desperation. Or a fervent distrust, misguided or otherwise of the alternatives. Still its action. Slapping your dick across the forehead of adversity. Yeah, pretty noble.
Jane:
This is what its all about: out for a drink, just me and my book. The only place in town that´s open and not a club where people shreik for joy when Cher comes one. "El Jardin", not much life, except for the Germans, they´re having fun. Still managed to pick a table for two in the corner. Not wanting to take up too much space - be in anyone´s way. So ridiculous, why should I even think about stuff like that? James indulges me in it. Picks the corner tables for me. I´m a retreat for him. I guess he´s a retreat for me, from uncertainty. I´m being unfair, thats just a part of us. And I´ve come out to be around people. Around them, but by myself. Absorb some of their warmth. Put myself in the way of possible company. Sounds pretty lonely, but that´s ok. Thats´s good.
El Mercardo: Puerto López
Bone soup for breckfast in the sleepiest market.
A man in baseball cap and apron, who`s cheery face I`ve seen countless times about the country, talks shop over a jumble of chicken feet. People roll by on bicycles whilstling saludos. A robust and slighty cross eyed woman slices bananas into a frying pan. Scales hang from bamboo and rough timber rafters, holding up corrugated rooves. People stand and stare at fruit with folded arms. A dog`s found something to gnaw on. A neighbour asks for change, setting in motion a lazy limbed exchange. The bananas are turned. A girl in school dress puts away wet glasses. Plates clink. People arrive. A shorter robust woman, with genuine warmth, asks them which soup.Heat haze from content coals makes their bodies wobble. The bananas are drained, two or three more chopped into the fat. Deeper under the aluminium canopy, stacks more lean like wedding cakes, unsure on their foundations. A few juices are served here and there. Plastic furniture. Tables wiped down from time to time. Among the stalls tenderos recline, knees and elbows variously arranged.
The man in baseball cap and apron rinses his bench. His chicken feet have moved on. He stares downwards and to the left: through a woman and her washing up; through a converted bicycle with front trailer and the two large silver pots it carries; out to a point which must be around where the road begins.
Sopa de hueso para desayuno en el mercado mas dormido.
Un hombre en gora de beísbol y delantal, la cara contenta que he visto innumerable veces através del pais, habla del trababjo sobre un revoltijo de pies de pollo. Gente pasa rollando en bici y silba saludos. Una mujer robusta y un poco bizca corta platinos en un sartén. Básculas colgan de vigas de bambu y leña áspera. Las apoyan un tejado ondulado. Algunas quedan de pie y contemplan a fruta con brazos cruzados. Un pero ha encontrado algo para roer. Un vecino pregunta a otro si tiene cambio suelto y este empieza un perezoso intercambio. Se revolcan los platinos. Una chica en uniforme de alumna guarda vasos mojados. Platos tintinean. Clientes llegan. Una otra mujer robusta pero mas baja les pregunta cual sopa con sincero cariño. La neblina de calor de contentos carbónes causa que sus cuerpos se tambalean. Escurre los platinos, y corta 2 o 3 mas a la grasa. Debajo del dosel de alumunio torres mas de platino se inclinan como tortas de boda con bases inseguros. A algunos se ponen jugos. Entre los puestos tenderos se reclinan, codos y rodillas arreglados variosamente. Muebles de plastico. De vez en cuando un trapo pasa sobre una mesa.
El hombre de gora de beísbol y delantal pasa un trapo sobre su encimera. Sus pies de pollo ya se han marchado. Mira fijamente abajo y a la izquierda, atravéz de una mujer que friega platos, através de una bici convertida con remolque enfrente y las grandes ollas que lleva, hacia un punto en lo que debe estar donde la calle empieza.
A man in baseball cap and apron, who`s cheery face I`ve seen countless times about the country, talks shop over a jumble of chicken feet. People roll by on bicycles whilstling saludos. A robust and slighty cross eyed woman slices bananas into a frying pan. Scales hang from bamboo and rough timber rafters, holding up corrugated rooves. People stand and stare at fruit with folded arms. A dog`s found something to gnaw on. A neighbour asks for change, setting in motion a lazy limbed exchange. The bananas are turned. A girl in school dress puts away wet glasses. Plates clink. People arrive. A shorter robust woman, with genuine warmth, asks them which soup.Heat haze from content coals makes their bodies wobble. The bananas are drained, two or three more chopped into the fat. Deeper under the aluminium canopy, stacks more lean like wedding cakes, unsure on their foundations. A few juices are served here and there. Plastic furniture. Tables wiped down from time to time. Among the stalls tenderos recline, knees and elbows variously arranged.
The man in baseball cap and apron rinses his bench. His chicken feet have moved on. He stares downwards and to the left: through a woman and her washing up; through a converted bicycle with front trailer and the two large silver pots it carries; out to a point which must be around where the road begins.
Sopa de hueso para desayuno en el mercado mas dormido.
Un hombre en gora de beísbol y delantal, la cara contenta que he visto innumerable veces através del pais, habla del trababjo sobre un revoltijo de pies de pollo. Gente pasa rollando en bici y silba saludos. Una mujer robusta y un poco bizca corta platinos en un sartén. Básculas colgan de vigas de bambu y leña áspera. Las apoyan un tejado ondulado. Algunas quedan de pie y contemplan a fruta con brazos cruzados. Un pero ha encontrado algo para roer. Un vecino pregunta a otro si tiene cambio suelto y este empieza un perezoso intercambio. Se revolcan los platinos. Una chica en uniforme de alumna guarda vasos mojados. Platos tintinean. Clientes llegan. Una otra mujer robusta pero mas baja les pregunta cual sopa con sincero cariño. La neblina de calor de contentos carbónes causa que sus cuerpos se tambalean. Escurre los platinos, y corta 2 o 3 mas a la grasa. Debajo del dosel de alumunio torres mas de platino se inclinan como tortas de boda con bases inseguros. A algunos se ponen jugos. Entre los puestos tenderos se reclinan, codos y rodillas arreglados variosamente. Muebles de plastico. De vez en cuando un trapo pasa sobre una mesa.
El hombre de gora de beísbol y delantal pasa un trapo sobre su encimera. Sus pies de pollo ya se han marchado. Mira fijamente abajo y a la izquierda, atravéz de una mujer que friega platos, através de una bici convertida con remolque enfrente y las grandes ollas que lleva, hacia un punto en lo que debe estar donde la calle empieza.
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