Displacement writing?

And now wet!  Together with the cold, this is not what I signed up for when I came to live in Catalonia.  Roll on Grand Canaria and the holiday which never seems to get any nearer.

The OU course seems to have ground to a halt again.  I am resting in the smugness of having got ahead of myself by a week or so and I am reluctant to start reading about that Great Fraud, Andy Warhol.  To be fair, there is some of his stuff which I quite like and, of course, I can see his importance in the development of Pop Art and in inaugurating the surge of gullible buyers who have allowed the likes of Jeff Koons to command eye wateringly stupid prices for his work these days. 

One of the best things about Warhol is that however negative you feel like being about his work, you will probably find that the man himself has beaten you to your position and already voiced your own caveats about the art with that dismissive tongue in cheek honesty that is so infuriating when you are trying to lose your temper about something you find inauthentic.  From his hair to his ‘superstars’ to the Factory and his Polaroid’s his is the apotheosis of the inauthentic!  And there is something wonderful about that!

My research into Guevara progresses, albeit slowly.  At least I have the prospect of actually seeing some of the work in the flesh.  Though the painting I would really like to see, ‘Little Splash’ is infuriatingly difficult to trace.  I have not given up.  My latest wheeze is to contact the Rothschild Foundation and find out if their records for the Guevara exhibition of 1974 exist and they have a buyer for that particular painting, or if it wasn’t for sale an owner.

Guevara has taken up all my time and I have done no work at all on Hockney.  The problem with him is that there is too much information available and at least I know that I will be able to see the painting that I am going to discuss when I go to London for the study day in May.

I am now uncomfortably aware that we are in February and May is disconcertingly near – but such proximity usually galvanizes me into action and keeps the juices flowing.

The one item that I constantly forget to buy when I go to the shops is a box of tea bags.  This has meant that I have been drinking various mixtures of teas as my usually morning (and afternoon and evening) beverage.  These mixtures are much more potent than the insipid offerings from Typhoo and Brooke Bond, but it does mean that I have been hard lining on caffeine-heavy leaves and I think that my furred tongue and clogged veins need a bit of a holiday that commercial tea would give.  Sometimes all you want is the unstructured taste of obviousness rather than the complexity of reality!

            The one thing that I have not been able to get recently is my red Early Gray.  This potent blend was available from the most expensive coffee shop in the world, just by the car park in the centre of town.  For some reason (I suspect because I was the only person who bought it) they have stopped carrying this product and I have had to make do with the black.  This is nothing like as potent and as aromatic and is very much a second best.

            Another tea, coffee and spice shop has opened up (at the side of the same car park) and I have been buying my Darjeeling and Te Ingles from them.  I have done my best to persuade them to get some Earl Grey and they have (eventually) responded by buying some black and assuring me that they will try and get some of the hard stuff.  As far as I can work out from the enthusiastic Spanish of the lady owner there have been problems with the supplier and they require them to take delivery of far too great a quantity of tea to make it worthwhile for them to stock.  I will persevere and see what I can get them to do!

            Meanwhile a holiday of tea inspididity would not come amiss.

See also: smrnewpoems.blogspot.com.es

Too much weather!

It’s bloody cold.  As usual the television is showing pictures (complete with breathlessly astonished commentary) of snow falling in Spain.  Every year this annual occurrence is greeted with complete astonishment.  But it is cold.  This morning it was nine degrees!  Cold!

            At least the water in the swimming pool was warm.  Ish.  And that is good enough for me.  In spite of the pool apparently being crowded, it worked out that I had a swimming lane to myself for the whole time that I was there.  That is what I call starting the day well.

            And it continued well with my completion of my latest poem, or latest draft as I like to think, making use of the pages of notes that I have written ever since I heard that damned tune ringing in my head first thing in the morning.  Why it was there and why I then though of my parents’ dog is one of those sequences that defy rational explanation – but I think that I have produced a satisfactory poem from the disruption!

            My new poems are to be found at smrnewpoems.blogspot.com.es I can’t help feeling that there should be a @ sign somewhere there, but I’ve found that smrnewpoems typed into Google is sufficient to get you there.  If, indeed, there is where you want to go.  The new stuff is mounting up and I am well on my way to producing enough product to fill the new book.

            The political situation in this country gets worse by the day.  Yesterday the appalling joke that terms himself our President and the self seeking opportunistic leader of the so-called socialist party PSOE had a television opportunity together to sign some sort of accord in the fight against terrorism.  Presumably it was to give them an appropriate setting to show themselves being statesman-like and serious – they both need such shoring up of their positions as both of their fatuous political groupings are under serious threat by the newly formed Podemos.  The initial effect of this televised meeting was thrown a little by our august president being unable to make his way to the right chair to sit in to sign the document!  Pathetic!

            The character assassination of Podemos continues with the minister for the taxation department using his position for political advantage and, in his pip-squeak voice questioning the probity of the party.  This from PP, a party riddled with corruption which is resolutely refuses to recognize because it has an absolute majority in parliament and it uses that majority with a cynical disregard for the voters of this country which takes the breath away.

            The national headquarters of PP were built with black money from developers in a secret account which is common knowledge now.  PP are trying to say that the guilty parties involved in this are the architect and a man who has actually been in prison for almost two years who was the treasurer of PP!  Of the last four treasurers of PP, three have been accused of crimes.  When you add the number of majors, senators, officials and party members who have been accused of corruption it is difficult not to say that corruption is systemic to PP.  Judges are moved from cases, cases are delayed – the whole of the justice system is a joke with political interference blatant and cynical.  Living in Spain is like being in a country governed by a branch of FIFA – and what could be more criminal than that?

            Change cannot come too soon.  Bring it on!

Swim, write, read!

A rough, windy night and a lazy morning: at least up until my swim – which always seems like a defining moment in my day. 

            The pool was ‘full’ (that is, the designated swimming lanes were full) and I had to hug the floats in the ‘other ranks and children’ section.  As this was empty that was not such a bad thing, indeed it is sometimes more spacious as the swimming lanes are sometimes filled by two people and I invariable bash watch or hand or arm against the floats.  This is not a hardship, but I swim with the sort of determined resolve that means even the slightest touch of flailing arm against float is painful.

Lunch was from our usual take away with the excitement of the meal usually being the increasingly desperate search for a parking space within walking distance of the place.  Only once have I given up and got the meal from somewhere else, but on a few other occasions it has come close to the break-off point where another restaurant beckons.

            To understand quite what I go through you also have to understand the Spanish, well Catalan approach to parking.  Any portion of road no occupied by a car is fair game.  It doesn’t matter if the length of road is also the start of a zebra crossing or has zigzag yellow lines on it or ‘no parking’ signs: if there is nothing there, so the thinking goes, your car could be.  However bad you think British parking is – Spanish is worse.  Much worse.

            My first three choices of ‘easy’ parking spaces were singularly full and as I was making for my ‘last chance’ area I came across that rarest of the rare: an empty legal parking space.

            I hate reverse parking with a gut wrenching loathing, but that was the only way that I was going to get in.  I don’t know what it is about the car that I am driving at the moment but I have not really come to terms with the length and turning circle of whatever you call it which makes reverse parking possible.  Earlier in my driving life I was spoilt by owning a Triumph Herald Estate which would park, as it were, on a sixpence – and I have suffered from a continuing resentment that other cars have not been made with the same versatility with each new vehicle that I have owned.

            And this space was on a busy road which means that your inept attempts to park will have an irate driver watching your lack of skill and radiating hatred at your delaying him.

            In the perverse way in which these things happen, my parking worked out perfectly and it made it appear as if I had been reverse parking as a dedicated hobby for most of my life!  I celebrate my competence wherever I can find it!  And the food was good too!

            Another positive step forward in my so-called research for my Open University course.  A London interior designer who has at least four of the paintings by the artist I am interested in has agreed to let me visit him in his Chelsea flat and view the works!  This is a major step forward, as I have yet to see a single example of Alvaro Guevara’s work in the flesh.  The other artist in my writing is David Hockney, so there is no paucity of paintings and, from my point of view more importantly, no shortage of critical works to use.  I think things are coming together pretty well.  And, as my tutor has an especial interest in the work of the Bloomsbury Group I think that I am on to a winner here!  As usual the only problem is getting the damn thing written!

            A more pressing problem is the fact that I have to get another tutor marked assignment done before I can give full attention to the final project.  The danger is that I allow myself to become complacent about the fact that I am at least a fortnight ahead of myself as far as the reading for the course is concerned.  That way lies disaster!  There is also the more interesting problem of our much-delayed holiday which will (if it takes place) eat into the study time available for me.  I must admit that I get a most satisfactory frisson of academic panic when I consider how things might work out!

The ‘book’ progresses.  I am now working on a poem with the title, ‘What dog was Rodney?’ which took its genesis from a waking memory of a tune as I marched resolutely towards the bathroom on waking.  Toni gets nearer and nearer to desperation each time I explain about a poem on which I am working!

            I am hoping that the usual inverse law does not apply to this poem.  Usually I find that the more notes that I have the harder the final poem becomes to produce.  Some of the most fluid work that I have written has come from the skimpiest of starting points.  I am putting my trust in the fact that the fluency of my note making for this piece will be reflected in the smooth ease with which I produce a draft.

            I can now see why some poets have used publication as a way of concentrating their minds on the definitive versions of poems.  As I read through what I have written in the draft book form I constantly see the need for sometimes major, but often minor edits.  I tell myself that this is part of the delight of production.

            I have made a list of what I want the next book to look like and each time I add to the list I am conscious that I am adding cost.  Still, I also keep telling myself that this is my birthday present to myself and so a little indulgence will not be out of place.  I also think that I would be well advised to get other quotations for the publication as the little extras that I am thinking of will eventually add up to something momentous as far as the price is concerned!

           

Enough of this escapist writing; time to get down to the pencil work that comes with the production of a poem!

Sadness and Hope

A cold and windy day, but bright enough for me to (defiantly, I admit) take my coat off when I sat outside to have my cup of tea.  As the last two people from Britain to whom I have talked have mentioned scatterings of the White Stuff I feel that my move to the sunnier shores of the Med was more than justified.

            Today was the rally in the centre of Madrid in support of Podemos, the new, year-old party that aims to break the stranglehold of the old political parties.  Those moribund entities obviously still have institutional teeth which they are gnashing with the fury that comes with the growing realization that their particular gravy train may be coming to the end of the line.  What they are doing at the moment is, with breath-taking hypocrisy, character assassination of one of the leaders of Podemos.  The whole weight of the corrupt press and media are trying their damndest to throw dirt in the hope that some of it will stick.  They find no difficulty in ignoring the overwhelming weight of evidence which clearly shows that they are in no position to say anything about corruption they hope (and know) that if you throw enough smear some of it will stick.

            I am, daily, sickened by the frantic attempts of politicians, who can see their easy livelihoods disappearing in a wave of popular disgust, and who try and talk their way to cleanliness as if new words are going to wipe away old stinking deeds!

            Spain is a country where change is eagerly awaited.  The success of the reform party in Greece has given added momentum to the movement in this country and I wish them every success.

            Now the reality check.  I have already been proved wrong in my pessimistic forecast about the percentage that this new party could possibly hope to achieve.  In some polls Podemos is the highest scoring party ahead of the two main established parties of the left and right.  The old parties still have an overall majority and they are going to do everything they possibly can to keep the old, corrupt situation in place.

            The real battle is between PP (the irremediably corrupt and shamelessly mendacious party of the right) and Podemos.  The Spanish equivalent of the Labour party, PSOE, have made themselves more and more irrelevant by conniving with the government over things like the unconstitutional establishment of the reign of the present King and through their total inability to bring the kleptocracy of PP to account.

            But the established parties will retain their diehard supporters and the right frightens more easily than the left and they will close ranks around any bunch of disreputable thieves as long as they sport the PP name.  The left will, as the left always does, tear itself apart.  PP will be delighted to see battles between PSOE and Podemos – though the leadership of Podemos has been careful to resist the labels of right or left and maintains that it is a part which appeals to the whole of Spain and is a party, the only party, for real change.

            I hope that people will respond.  If I had a vote in the national elections this year then I would put my X next to Podemos.  I only hope enough people are as eager for change as I am and that they ignore their previous party affiliations and do the right thing.  I live in hope.

            My next book progresses.  I have one person thinking about translating the Tree poems into Spanish and another friend has agreed to translate them into Catalan.  I have plans for the drawings/illustrations and am looking forward to getting the volume organised.  My last two chapbooks have been produced with the emphasis on serendipity rather than a reasoned thematic approach – my next one will be, I hope, different.

            The wind is blowing gently in the background.  I do not mind this at night; it is during the day that I object!