(First draft)
Down the road alone.
Yesterday I learned of
the passing of the hand fashioner of the castanet. Another loss in evolution. Snap
Going going…soon gone,
Castanets and flamenco.
The low pitch castanet clack
of the seguirillas. Flemish themes of loves, Flemish themes of the mischievous, of the playful. Sung slow and sexy and somehow out of the fires of hell, it was
borne in a Flemish hell, a Flemish Hell of Bruegel.
Seguirillas with Sentiment, Seguirillas sung in ancient folk tones in ancient poetic form…swirl of the tailed gown, swirl of the ruffled tail gown, songs sung in low pitch to the snap clatter snap of castanet. Arms move like waves deliberate. Eyes, like birds watching prey, never losing sight and pray, dance gypsy. Flamenco is like a gypsy, like our true selves, no boundaries.
Just distinct deliberate movement. Movements with purpose.
Arms moving like undulating waves, intentional, conscious.
Repeat.
Repeat like a replayed song on repeat and snap flash, snap flash, flash fire :
Do not lose hope
In canto jondo
in ancient Flamenco song
from Lorca who heard
the rhythm of the birds.
To Falla
Who heard the ancient words as
gypsy
most pure
most pure
primitive and ancient
and pure and then snap
and pure and then snap
snap snap
Clap a vision
The purity of ancient
song released my visions.
And it all came
rushing. The rhythm of the castanets brought a memory of a little restaurant in
dark street fog of North Beach. Crowded wood tables of their only dish of simple
fish cluttered paella and full glasses of fruited Sangria were pushed back to the walls. Cooks
became dancers, bartender set aside the bottela for a worn guitar, fingers
snapping gut strings, hands shake clacking castanets and we were mesmerized and
safe from the cool night fog wrapped in the now moment of the gypsy flamenco. The group assemble forgot all but the night and saw the swirl and the flash and all became exotic.
Vision of Hemingway
rough drinking on cobbled Spanish alley streets while a war raged in burnt hills. Smash drunk, comrade
battle drunk arm in arm and singing of Spanish women fighting alongside poet
freedom brothers.
And the gypsy danced while they drank to forget the blood.
And the gypsy danced while they drank to forget the blood.
Vision of old friends
in Barcelona watching a turtle crawl, claws clacking on textured cool concrete,
slow sliding under a bush as the heart fade feeling of a lost love moves back
but is never gone,
Vision of Nazi teeth
clattering in lonely nights, frightened by gypsies, frightened by their dance
and clack snap of the castanet that lead gypsy spirit anywhere. Heil and no
respect for the state, for the line, for the boundary, for ours, for theirs. Heil
and no respect for anyone lifted to a god. They only followed the ancient song
rhythms of the birds. Heil and boots marched unison empty. Nazis squirmed, and
forced them singing, dancing, swirling red tail dresses, arms waving overhead
into fires. And the Nazis died and the gypsy slap dances and fingers pluck taut
strings
But they never died.
Visions, a mind rush of
thoughts about the Las Ramblas in Barcelona and parrots in gilded cages lining
the street, and drunken red wine afternoons fading with friends in green
spaces.
Along side the lap, lap, lap rhythms of summer slap waves, of mediterranean
waters against crusted pier posts.
Today, the loss of the castanet man brought vision to me. Maybe it was the primal rhythms of birds. Maybe the next time we meet in the falling rain to the sss sss sss of the drops and splash of tires on asphalt.
Today, the loss of the castanet man brought vision to me. Maybe it was the primal rhythms of birds. Maybe the next time we meet in the falling rain to the sss sss sss of the drops and splash of tires on asphalt.
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