He rummaged around the kitchen draw, fumbling in the darkness. Must be here somewhere, Mum said she always kept white candles for emergencies. Cold metallic sharp scissors slipped against his finger tips, a ball of string wound tightly, old teaspoons. Without his eyes he relied heavily on feeling. There, the smooth waxiness of a white candle nestled between some silver forks. He grabbed at it and clutched the candle in his left hand. Diving immediately back in for the box of matches which he found straight away.
The velvet darkness surrounded him. Hush had fallen about the house since the power cut half hour ago. An earthly, natural hush. Suddenly the chaotic music which had invaded the airways had stopped and now all he could hear was the gentle swish of the trees in the wind in the garden. The bright light had vanished to be replaced by a dim blackness. There was something restful within the situation. He could have sunk in to it further but he needed to read up on some work for tomorrow.
Striking a match on the box, he lit the string on the tip of the candle. The match sparked and flared briefly and the flame then quickly transferred to a slower, calmer, more resilient light form the candle. The darkness dissipated a little and he could make out the lines of the chairs in the lounge. Harsh edges rounded and softened in the light. He gently placed the candle in the nearby bottle. Wax slid from its tip, sealing its new home.
Juliette Llewellyn
16.10.07
Tuesday 30 October 2007
Looking for Lorca 30th October 2007. I'm sitting writing this on a bench in the sun in the little orchard attached to the house where Federico García Lorca lived in Granada, Andalucía. This house, where he said he produced some of his calmest work, is now run by the local council, the Junta di Andalucia, and the visit times posted on the door bear no relation to reality. This afternoon, our coach party is booked to visit the Alhambra, and our guide has impressed on us the need to get there on time, because there is a timed traffic flow through one of the palaces and no possibility to buy an individual ticket on the day. OK, no problem. The first two tours of the Lorca house have been booked by school trips, but the third slot or the final one on the day would suit me fine.
I went into the reception office in good time, to be totally ignored by the custodian behind the counter. He was having two phone conversations at once, on a landline and a mobile. However, the “next tour” presentation folder on the desk showed my target time, still half an hour away, so I started looking through the books on display. I had hoped to find some parallel texts, English and Spanish, because my Spanish is still basic and it saves time diving into dictionaries for new words. However, they were all in just Spanish. No problem. So many nationalities visit, and it would be impossible to cater for all of us. I selected Poema del Cante Jondo, sure that I would be able to find a parallel text once I could get my fingers on a keyboard again.
Once my man saw that I wanted to buy something, he came off the phones to talk to me. I said I wanted to book a place on the next tour as well, pointing to the time on the folder. ¡Ah, no, that was not possible! He flipped the page to show me the next one, too late for my Alhambra visit. No good. So I flipped the pages to the final visit for the day, but with a shrug he turned back to what was really the final visit for the day, at a time when I would still be at the Alhambra. ¡Choices! ¿Lorca or the Alhambra?
Lorca was taken from this house on August 19th 1936 by Falange militia, driven into the countryside and murdered. He was an intellectual, a socialist and gay. What more excuse did Franco's thugs need? I suppressed unworthy thoughts about the possible ancestry of the man behind the counter, and made my decision. I will come back to Andalucía on a pilgrimage when the almond trees are in flower. I will visit Lorca's birthplace in Fuente Vaqueros, which is now the Museo Casa Natal Federico García Lorca. I will visit the place of his murder, near Víznar, and I will come back to this house, La Huerta de San Vicente, with plenty of time to find an available tour.
¡Hasta la vista!
Miguel
Looking for Lorca
30th October 2007. I'm sitting writing this on a bench in the sun in the little orchard attached to the house where Federico García Lorca lived in Granada, Andalucía. This house, where he said he produced some of his calmest work, is now run by the local council, the Junta di Andalucia, and the visit times posted on the door bear no relation to reality. This afternoon, our coach party is booked to visit the Alhambra, and our guide has impressed on us the need to get there on time, because there is a timed traffic flow through one of the palaces and no possibility to buy an individual ticket on the day. OK, no problem. The first two tours of the Lorca house have been booked by school trips, but the third slot or the final one on the day would suit me fine.
I went into the reception office in good time, to be totally ignored by the custodian behind the counter. He was having two phone conversations at once, on a landline and a mobile. However, the “next tour” presentation folder on the desk showed my target time, still half an hour away, so I started looking through the books on display. I had hoped to find some parallel texts, English and Spanish, because my Spanish is still basic and it saves time diving into dictionaries for new words. However, they were all in just Spanish. No problem. So many nationalities visit, and it would be impossible to cater for all of us. I selected Poema del Cante Jondo, sure that I would be able to find a parallel text once I could get my fingers on a keyboard again.
Once my man saw that I wanted to buy something, he came off the phones to talk to me. I said I wanted to book a place on the next tour as well, pointing to the time on the folder. ¡Ah, no, that was not possible! He flipped the page to show me the next one, too late for my Alhambra visit. No good. So I flipped the pages to the final visit for the day, but with a shrug he turned back to what was really the final visit for the day, at a time when I would still be at the Alhambra. ¡Choices! ¿Lorca or the Alhambra?
Lorca was taken from this house on August 19th 1936 by Falange militia, driven into the countryside and murdered. He was an intellectual, a socialist and gay. What more excuse did Franco's thugs need? I suppressed unworthy thoughts about the possible ancestry of the man behind the counter, and made my decision. I will come back to Andalucía on a pilgrimage when the almond trees are in flower. I will visit Lorca's birthplace in Fuente Vaqueros, which is now the Museo Casa Natal Federico García Lorca. I will visit the place of his murder, near Víznar, and I will come back to this house, La Huerta de San Vicente, with plenty of time to find an available tour.
¡Hasta la vista!
Miguel
Sunday 21 October 2007
Thursday 4 October 2007
CIRCLE
If I step into you
Is it safe to be
Will you take care
Of the essence of me
Delicate, soft
Loving and clear
Boundaries gone
Holding you near
Juliette Llewellyn
02.06.07
For National Poetry Day
Is it safe to be
Will you take care
Of the essence of me
Delicate, soft
Loving and clear
Boundaries gone
Holding you near
Juliette Llewellyn
02.06.07
For National Poetry Day
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