We bore this tide of echoes with lightness, attributing most of it to having lived in a country with a similar history of Imperial domination, down to the same conquistadores. But who didn't Spain touch when she was in her hey day? It was evening by the time we left the cuotas (toll roads), navigating through small towns and villages, till we were finally in Valladolid where we'd stay the night.
I'd summarily described it to the Lovely Libran as "you know, it's like a small Spanish town" deliberately leaving out most of the details to surprise her. The evening had done my efforts better, for we'd arrived on the night of a fiesta. The streets had garlands of lights, flags and flowers hung everywhere, and there was that general buzz of celebratory excitement.
It's so true. At least for me it is. I suppose it has to do with how a good part of my life is in my writing. Hence my absence usually means I've succumbed to the silence living requires that trying once again to articulate insight from a moving canvas
of emotions can be preemptive, even false if not allowed to ripen. While I'm on both twitter and face crack, I have as yet to develop a significant presence on either. All this means is that I'm not quite convinced I have anything of value to say in 140 characters or less that doesn't involve the words, "Fire", "Watch Out", or "Duck".
I'm told it's an eminently useful tool in keeping followers in touch, and I believe it is. But what if my silences are just as important as what I have to say? Take fruit cake for instance, no one questions that it has to sit there for a while, marinating in rum or brandy or whatever liqueur it is that's meant to make it a masterpiece.
My mother used to make fruit cake in August so it would be ready by December, and opening the fridge we all teetered at the promise each well-wrapped lump of foil would later yield. The indescribable satisfaction of nut, fruit and dark cake, moistly infused with brandy, which was her choice of alcohol, all of which we could only enjoy when the holidays were finally upon us.
In her country, fruit cake was also the traditional wedding cake. Surprising I know, considering how we now associate wedding cake with the fluffy, creamed sponge tiers of sugar nothings majestically decorated in full bridal regalia. A recipe that's statistically telling. But yes, aside from Christmas, fruit cake was reserved for the day a marriage was sanctified. Apt I guess, because of the time it requires to gel, to finally make sense so to speak. Eating my mother's fruit cake was also one of the few occasions I could taste alcohol without getting ill and embarrassing myself publicly. Well, not so much myself as others, I usually don't remember much after I'm sick from it, being unable to ingest it uncooked.
Yes, despite my having been the Muse of the Yucatan and the past month and a half having gone at warp speed, I'm still very much here. Except I'm entertaining the should be strange yet really not at all odd feeling that I'm not who I was when I left.
I'd sent off a birthday gift to the Pegasus in a mad rush this week, only to have her write back excitedly buoyed by both the gift and how I'd divined her old stomping grounds in Delayed (Adelaide), a city I'd never been to, "A Spa on Halifax, I used to live there! Are you psychic? And did this happen to you after the Yucatan??"
If I WERE psychic, I think I'd be at the nearest shop buying Powerball tickets this very second. I suppose these sort of resonant coincidences happen more frequently during certain times than not. I'd asked the Lovely Libran sister to descend upon me in the last two weeks of November, and together we decided to conquer the so-called jungle.
We'd been on trips before, some we started together, others we just arranged to coincide at certain points, easily going our separate ways when the trip ended. But this was northeastern Mexico, the farthest flung one could get in that country before you had to say you were in Guatemala. And it was only for six days.
It happened a month ago today. Naturally, with the speed of world events and need to sell papers, we don't hear as much about it now, buried as it is under by-lines about Gaddafi, Mubarak, government shut downs, Posh Beckham's baby bump. As far as headline-retention is concerned, this isn't surprising. Katrina suffered the same fate.
It is the most video-documented natural catastrophe I can recall. The devastation caused by the wars we’ve seen, whether military, religious or gang-related, the nose-diving stock index, the recovery of incest victims from dark basements, car chases, shootings, etc. - all these man-made, still leave open the possibility of justice. The chance to pursue the perpetrators, to question our mistakes and to rue our follies.
Japan’s tsunami showed us the Pacific’s watery hand, reaching ravenously for a country turned toy land, leaving little escape and no recourse. It was so apocalyptic, it almost looked like CGI. Halfway through watching it, it feels so surreal that you think at any moment, the Hollywood version of Perseus should appear and set things right.
FA on feathers, fangs, furies and all sorts of folly, yes, even the serious kind.
content copyright 2011
Yep, my life, my insanity, my copyright. If you like what you read, let me know :)
Did I use your image & attribute it incorrectly? Sorry! Let me know and I'll take it down. "Sssshhhh" image on blog header by Deborah Azzopardi. It's an amazing print now available thru Ikea.