the color of summer

I don't really like alcohol. Just don't. I grew up begging sips up my parents' wine at dinner, and waiting for the time when my taste buds would suddenly change and I would also drink that magic liquid from pretty glasses. My favorite Bible story was even Jesus at the wedding in Cana; I would enact the scene in the bathtub at least once a week.

"Jesus, there's no more wine!" I'd say while my mom or dad sat on the edge. "Please make some more for us."

After filling the "jars" (read plastic 1992 Alabama National Championship cups), I would take a huge swig of bathwater and proclaim that "this is the best wine I've ever tasted."

I tell you all this to make the point clear: when I turned 21, I was disappointed to discover I don't like wine (which turned out okay; more on that later). When we went to Spain, I thought maybe this would change. If I had to drink red wine at every meal, surely I'd learn to at least tolerate it, right? Nope. Especially after this one horrible night where I drank it cause I was thirsty and then the wonderfully generous bartender gave free lemon liqueur to the strange family of Americans as a sign of friendship, and Jim was hissing in my ear, "drink it all, or you'll look rude" and NO I never wanted to see the stuff again in my life.

Except. Except for this magic in a bottle:

Tinto de verano. Ice, lemon, and you've got yourself the best summer-afternoon-at-a-European-cafe drink, ever. I thought it was sangria. Literally, it means red wine of summer.

When I got home, I missed tinto de verano more than even the groaningly delicious Italian pastas. I found the recipe after a search of about, oh, 3 seconds. Wanna know it?

Red wine + Sprite + ice + lemon.

That's IT. I've even substituted ginger ale for the sprite.

So go put on some Drunkard's Prayer by Over the Rhine, set out on the porch, and sip your glass of summer.

Hear Me Calling Your Name

On Friday morning, I woke up from the first night in my bed in over a week, wrote one poem and finished another, cleaned my room, and got in the car to go to a family lunch. At the bottom of the driveway, there was a dog. This dog, in fact.

In our lives, there has been the lack of a dog. One dog, in particular, but also dogginess in general. In fact, the night before we had just been talking about getting a dog, whether it was too early, etc. I slammed the car stopped, jumped out, and the tick-covered little love ran straight into my arms.

I could tell you about how she crawls way down low because of mean people that hurt her, how she flips over on her back and puts up her tummy to be rubbed, how she scrambles herself into one's lap as if she thinks she's still a small puppy. I could tell you about the sickening number of ticks that covered her, the way her ribs feel as though they are about to break through her skin, the complete sweetness and trust with which she endures medicines and tweezers and all kinds of doctoring.

But to make a long story short, I'll tell you only this: her name is Gypsy.

tulip poplar iris. and no, i didn't forget my commas

Today, I went out to feed the amazing survivalist cats (another post on them another time), and a blur of neon orange and yellow caught my eye. "TULIP POPLAR," I thought. Dr. Brown and the folklore days brainwashed me well. On closer inspection, I found it was an iris, but imitating the tulip poplar blossom in its electric colored blossoms (I should write for an agriculture publication, no?).

Warm and lovely and velvet. I can't get enough of color these days, and this much pure joy saturation sates my hunger.

Stove by a Whale

 At some point during high school, I decided that I needed to read Moby Dick. Even then, I think, I knew my calling as an English scholar, that my commitment to musical theatre was fading and I needed to start preparing for my future discipline. 

Or maybe I was just a stupid teenager who read big books for show. 

Either way, I had no idea what I was getting into. I had a tempestuous, tenacious relationship with Melville from then on. "Why do I need to know how they swab the decks?" I wailed. "Can we stop talking about harpoon technique?"

Perhaps if I'd known Melville based his gargantuan tome on a real live story, I would have found it more interesting. Probably not. But what I'm trying to say is - Moby Dick was REAL. And there weren't no happy ending for them fellas, either.

 

A couple of weeks ago, I picked up this book. I've been a Nathaniel Philbrick nerd-fan for four years now, since I read Mayflower. (Every American needs to read this book. Not even kidding. Did you know Squanto was evil? It's TRUE.) The man can make any history into a fascinating adventure-mystery tale. If I was ever to teach Moby Dick (or any of Melville's sea stories, for that matter) I'd have the students read this first. Philbrick explains the Nantucket culture, ship life, and the whaling industry with clarity, sharp and urgent prose, a sense of humor and humanity (he was an English major, yepthat'sright).

 

  

 

Did you know that men spent 3 years at sea? Did you know that men went out in these tiny little boats and stuck their own dang tiny harpoons into these enormous creatures? Did you know how amazing their ships were?

Oh my word, yes, I admit it. I'm interested in whaling. And I sort of have a huge academic crush on said Nathaniel. 

I won't say much about the Essex history except: a whale rammed their boat. But they didn't die then, oh no. There were 94 more days of horror at sea in tiny boats to come. Fascinating. Terrifying. Superlative-ing. It - it even - it makes me want to (sort of) read Moby Dick again. 

And if that's not an endorsement . . . 

Heartsick.

Words don't really have a place in the raw pain of such devastation, except in stories. And I don't have any story apart from my grief. Grief for cities I love, neighborhoods I know, people I see helpless in the face of the monster.

I'm praying for healing, of these new hurts, and of old, old hurts. Hurts of white and black divide, of mountaintop mansions and 3 room houses in the hills. I'm praying that this great evil will lead to greater healing for the city. 

And I'm looking forward to getting back and finding a way to help. Go here to look for ways you can make your compassion particular.

la Corrida

Hey folks. Instead of me complaining/praising/ignoring Mississippi life, I have, for only the second time in the history of this blog . . . . a guest post!!!


That's right. Today I am featuring none other than my own flesh and blood, my kith and kin, my only brother and world traveler extraordinaire, Jim. He's in Spain for the semester, and every week or so we get emails from him full of juicy cultural details, stories, and spectacles. His last writing was on attending a Spanish bullfight, and he's agreed to share it with the world. Enjoy!

*****l
la Corrida

Yesterday (Sunday) I finally made it to my first bullfight, called a corrida in Spanish. Honestly I hadn't known what to expect. History? Cruelty? Art? Brutality? Turns out it was every one of those, with a lot more mixed in.
First I suppose I should explain how bullfights work. Every corrida consists of 6 different rounds - 3 toreros (bullfighters) each fight 2 bulls. The bulls are usually around 1100 pounds. Within each round are 3 stages, called tercios. First the bull is fought by the picadores, who are men on horseback with lances. They attack the bull with their lance, striking it in the back to weaken it somewhat. Their lance points are limited to a certain length to prevent any real damage to the bull except for blood loss. The picadors also provide an opportunity for the torero (the matador) to gauge the bull's strength, and see if he has any tendencies to hook to a certain side. The fights between the picadors and the bulls are really intense - the bulls are trying their best to gore the horse and the rider. There were a couple bulls that got low and used leverage, and almost flipped the whole horse. The horses are protected by armor, as are the legs of the picador. They blindfold the horses to keep them calm, but I still couldn't believe how tranquil they were while an enraged bull was trying to flip them over. I never heard them make a sound, and afterward they almost seemed bored.

Next come the banderilleros - I'm not sure if any person in the ring is braver than another, because everything is dangerous, but these guys are pretty gutsy. Their job is to place banderillas in the back of the bull - basically 3 foot sticks with points that keep them stuck in to weaken the bull some more. The way they do this is to face off with the bull from across the ring with a banderilla in each hand, arms spread out wide, and then both charge toward each other full speed. The Banderillero runs toward one side a bit while he's charging, and at the last minute jumps to one side and drives the banderillas into the bull. A couple of times the banderilleros bailed at the last minute and jumped out of the way of the charging bull, inciting boos and jeers from the crowd. I wondered how many of the people booing would go into the ring and do what those guys do....

Finally, the matador enters the ring alone with his sword and his cape and begins the faena, or the dance with the bull. It was absolutely incredible to see this in person. The bull was at times brushing the matadors as he passed them. There are countless techniques and styles to this, which is part of the deep, fascinating world of bullfighting. If the matador is doing well, the crowd shouts out "Olé!" after every pass and goes crazy as he walks away to begin the next series. Finally, the faena comes to a close when the matador kills the bull with his sword. The matador lines up about 10 feet in front of the bull with his sword pointed straight out. He draws the bull to charge using his cape and lunges forward at almost the same instant, ideally burying the sword up to the hilt between the shoulder blades of the bull as it passes by him. If it's not delivered well, the sword won't go in all the way and the matador has to pick it up and face the bull for another try. During a couple of rounds the matadors had to try 3 or 4 times - they were relatively inexperienced matadors. If the blow is delivered well, the bull can fall almost immediately. Other times it'll take a few minutes of using the cape to make the bull charge.

After the bull is dead, the sword is pulled out (risky at times - think Monty Python's quote "he's not quite dead!") and a team of 3 mules pulls the dead bull out of the ring really fast. There's two guys driving the mules and another one popping a huge whip on the ground yelling, and the mules are absolutely hauling. After the last bull was killed I was leaving through the tunnel under the stadium with all the other spectators when the team of mules came flying past right past us, going out of the stadium with the bull and leaving a trail of blood behind them that you had to step over.

So that's a how the corrida actually works. My first one was at the bullring of Madrid - built in 1929, it's not as old as some others (the one in Sevilla was first used in 1785), but it's regarded as one of the best and most important in the world. It was a fantastic day - warm weather, but not too hot and without a cloud in the sky. I took the 8am train to Madrid to hang out in the city for most of the day, as the corrida started at 5pm. The atmosphere outside the stadium before the match was awesome - all the old aficionados were there hanging out for hours before it started. There's tons of old men that go to every single corrida, and they were all arguing and talking about bullfighting constantly.

The corrida began with the parade to salute the president of the bullring. Two marshals of the stadium - older men, wearing 18th century clothes and mounted on horseback - led out the three matadors, each of whom was followed by his entourage of 3 banderilleros on foot and his 2 picadors mounted on their horses. They marched to the center of the arena as the band played the traditional entrance song of the Madrid bullring. It was pretty awesome - it really gives you chills. The stadium was only about half-filled (the toreros weren't really famous - still pretty young) but there was so much energy it felt like it was full. I sat on the first row, right over the entrance to the tunnel that the bulls run out of. I had the great fortune to sit next to a really nice old guy who goes to every single bullfight. He explained everything that happened, and I learned a ton. It was also great to hear his commentary on the bulls, the matadors, the crowd, and everything else in between. A particularly fierce bull entered the ring, rushing past mere feet below us, and he studied it intently, saying, "See! This is a bull's bull!" Later the same bull sent a banderillero diving over the wall, taking a big chunk out of the wood where the guy had been not even a second before. The old man exclaimed, "$#&@! That's a lot of bull! That's what I was talking about!"

The craziest part of the day was during the second fight, when the matador from Madrid was about to strike his death blow. He lunged towards the bull, but it must have hooked left or right, because it caught him right in his stomach and he was flung through the air like a rag doll, landing about fifteen feet in front of the bull. He rolled over, and I immediately saw a huge, dark red stain all over his stomach. The whole crowd made a collective gasp. It looked like his stomach had been skewered right through. He started trying to crawl away, but the bull rushed him, pummeling him further. The bullfighting version of rodeo clowns rushed in to distract the bull, finally bringing it over to a far corner to keep it distracted. Miraculously, the matador stood up and limped to the center of the ring, where his banderilleros were waiting to help him. He stood doubled over for a minute, and then suddenly stood up straight. Everyone realized that the blood all over his stomach was actually from the bull - he had somehow escaped the horns. I still have no idea how. The matador slowly walked over and picked up his sword and his cape, and motioned for the banderilleros to leave the ring. The crowd went crazy. Everyone stood up cheering for him for a minute or so as he caught his breath, then the guys distracting the bull in the corner hopped over the fence and he was alone with the bull once again. He faced it down again, and his next strike drove the sword home. Afterwards everyone went nuts. He walked out of the ring into the infirmary, and no one knew if he'd fight again. Sure enough, he came back out for the last match, blood still covering his stomach, and did very well considering the beating he took. It was an impressive performance to even finish the fight, because that bull absolutely nailed him. It really drove home that it's not a sport or a show - it's a life or death thing for them.

So that was my introduction to bullfighting, and I'm afraid I'm hooked. It was absolutely fascinating, probably one of my best experiences here so far. I can't say how I justify watching it though - it was indeed very cruel, and it goes against what I believe about not making animals suffer unnecessarily. However, when I saw it I immediately understood why they call it art. It portrays so much about the culture of Spain and about life and death that it's astounding. But it's definitely not for everyone - when's the last time you went to a sporting event or performance and had to step over a blood trail on your way out? In spite of my doubts about it - which I'm sure will always stay with me - I can't wait to see my next corrida and continue learning about this incredibly unique national pastime.

a thousand stars

Today, I have to share with you one of my favorite artists. I discovered him through a children's book. Yes, that's right. Children's books have some of the crappiest art out there, but they also have some of the loveliest, imaginative, creative, real art.

So I discovered today's artist in The Jesus Storybook Bible, by Sally Lloyd-Jones. Yes, it is a children's Bible. Yes, I may like it more than my actual Bible (except for the Psalms). And you know it's gonna be good because the writer and illustrator are BOTH British. [Note: if you go to the Storybook website, check out the video - it's narrated by David Suchet. Whoa, I thought. Not THAT David Suchet? But it is! The Hercule Poirot, British actor David Suchet, and I'm probably the only one who is nerdy enough to watch Agatha Christie movies so I have to tell you how awesome it is that David frickin Suchet is reading the Jesus Storybook Bible! Ahem. Back to our regularly scheduled program.]

Anyway. Back to the artist. Jago is his name, and he makes a living illustrating children's books. How wonderful is that. The first thing I noticed about his art on the Storybook's pages is the beautiful use of texture and layering. His creations are simultaneously earthy and luminous, whimsical and poignant. I don't know how. Apparently his work is all digitally done, and it is absolutely. gorgeous. absolutely.

What's even better - I discovered that you can buy his work at deviantART, and also at photobox, if you are so inclined (I am).

Unfortunately, due to both copyright laws and my own technical ineptitude, I can't share any of his lovely stuff directly with you on this blog. So, as the Reading Rainbow guy would say (I love you LeVar!) - don't take my word for it. Find out for yourself!

P.S. Okay, now you can expect a post in homage to LeVar Burton. I was seriously in love with that man. Stay tuned.