We're Not All Bad

POEM FOR JACOB

2009-10-14T19:18:00.007+02:00

I dreamed about you
shooting Andy Warhol
from a subaru
from an exercise ball
bouncing into infamy.

I dreamed it;
you didn't have to tell me;
I am not amazed by the coming of spring.

Still, they'll say he was a genius
they'll say he was a penius
they'll say he never once turned off the TV
- they were wrong.

Crows...
an Indian summer
as much as I,

"But they are crows
and it's not summer."

"Then summer is not summer."

"Oh but it is, it is!"

- BANG!

Letter to Jacob, 5/30/09

2009-06-06T21:19:00.002+02:00

The smell of patchouli oil
and cigarette smoke
hanging in the humid air,
dusk, summer and
a Missoula that yawns towards the sea.

It's not half bad here, Jacob; my road bike is holding up fine; much better than my skin. There is no sunburn for bikes (there is also no drunkenness). Yesterday I saw a butterfly. Are Mormons allowed butterflies? Even my bike one day will depart. it's parts will be buried in the bike graveyard (death is free) and diffused into many bicycles; diffusion and all its horror! One day it will be evenly diffused among all bikes.

Elm samaras blow into my window
they land on my sheets,
in-between my computer's keys,
on my hardwood floor
even so; they are not wasted (if I say so)
"How now? a rat?" - it is myself.
It says, "what a divinely silly mood."

I'm going down to the sea
and there there there there'll be
no difference between the sky the sea and me
and to that strange country
where there are starfishes
and moonfishes
and milky way whales
sharks and snails
mountains of coral
forests of kelp
mermaid caves and meadows of clams;
the sea can be a mirror (and vice versa)
and there there there there'll be
no difference between the sky the sea and me!

I reread your portfolio today; I miss your lilac shoes and your swimming ballet; didn't you take them with you, or are they locked up in my basement? among the teacups and microwave...
All you have left here awaits you return.
Your friend,
Ross

Necrophilia

2009-04-21T21:39:00.000+02:00

Why are humans afraid of death? Perhaps it is an evolutionary mechanism so that we can live long enough to reproduce and further our species, but even that seems like a very human and positivist response (although here too, death and love are interdependent). Perhaps it is the vertigo of realizing that eventually, any sense of identity we cling to will be erased forever. (Whoever said we have the right to an identity?) Why do we fear death! Perhaps no one knows, but the point is that we do fear it. We can do many things to prolong life; eating well, exercise, medicine, wearing seatbelts, etc. but the truth of the matter is that all living things must die. That is how we know we are living; awareness of death. Fear of death is fear of life. We understand very little about either or these two interconnected phenomena. When we try to have life without death, we effectively eliminate both and are not quite living, not quite dead. We love this state because it allows us to forget about death, if at the cost of resignation from life. Modern life is consumed with this obsession with death - this necrophilia. Our lives fall in to orderly, planned out, almost mechanical routines while real, rich and violent life always seems to exist someplace else and we are spared its threats, mainly death, as if such a thing we possible. We prefer to superficially transcend into an abyss of forgetfulness. Little do we know, this comfortable and quiet life is death. Or perhaps we do know, if subconsciously. Either way, we love it. We love death.

Sping is beautiful too

2009-04-12T19:45:00.001+02:00

Perhaps to learn how to make ourselves happy
And then break down again.
Perhaps to have children who will have children
Who will die.
Perhaps because sunshine is so pure.
Perhaps because as children
We had no concept of nothingness.
Perhaps to buzz around in these studios
That would otherwise be so boring.
Perhaps to learn to tell the truth
Then to learn that is impossible.
Perhaps to make love on sunny afternoons
With Nick Drake on the stereo.
Perhaps to be given shelter
And then to be given rain.
Perhaps to dream.
Perhaps to learn the best way to peal garlic,
Grow beards, get sunburns.
To be preserved in glass; a few photos,
A song, a poem and then forgotten.
To inherit the question and then misplace in the rosemary...

To Salome with love

2009-04-12T19:44:00.003+02:00

I’ve given myself away
I have nothing and can do no more.
I’ve spent days waiting
For my milk to be delivered.
To let her in and make a pot of coffee
Without obligation
And start talking
Watch her move slowly
From the kitchen, to the piano, to the bed
Brown hair curling and swinging
Like a caveman’s arms
Breaking the still air
With jingling bells and eagle feathers
Then on the horizon, the captain spies
The enemy sail.
A pink bed sheet, a t-shirt, socks.
I want to swim in the ocean and,
Like a whale, not come up for hours
Perhaps that would be enough time.
Guitars play in the cave
Lit up with fire and wine - hashish smoke
And she is there, waving hair deliberately, playing some castanets
Or some god-awful thing
She is awful, awe-inspiring, like God;
Cruelly beautiful.
Likewise?
No, I am ugly and kind.
But there is this Apollo 13 passion
(Lift off, explode, you know, go to the moon anyway.)
That still manages to leave me all baroque and sad,
7:30, Sunday morning, ready to puke.
I am week; oh, too human,
And painfully so, my one hope is round orbit that moon and bring it back home
My music? My love?
These are my too competing theologies
Without them I am lost in space; the superhuman realm of emotions;
Imagination without an outlet.
There she is in the cave, head swinging,
Hair all syncopated with her arms that hold the terrible castanets
I hear over the guitars, over the old gypsies
(all gypsies are old, either they are old or they seem old,
that’s how you know a gypsy)
I am drawn into the cave, out of the valley of expression
Into the depths of copulation, domesticity.
The gypsies growl and force me out
She shrugs, apologetically, continues her dance
I am no John the Baptist.

Song: Flushed Down the AlCan (into the Sub-Canadian Abyss)

2008-12-03T22:32:00.002+01:00

Your eyes are like an oven
and pies are like our lovin'
and we'll keep on cookin'
the world keeps on cookin'
and we're going from scratch
and we've never tried anything quite like that.

This road takes me away from alaska
from my parents, my siblings and my dog
but I'll keep on driving
the world keeps on driving
and we don't got no map
no, we've never seen anything quite like that.

This sky will be our roof
and these animals and plants will be our food
and we'll keep on living
the world keeps on living
and we don't have to be sad
no, we've never felt anything quite like that.

Haiku to Evan

2008-12-03T22:31:00.001+01:00

Art in my living
Room: Evan dancing, drunk, stoned.
Art in my living.

ODE TO ODETTA

2008-12-03T20:52:00.002+01:00

You don't know my mind
You see me laughin'
I'm laughing just to keep from crying.
Odetta is dead.

She wanted to sing at Obama's Inauguration
But O, Odetta! They sang your songs on the bus.
Alabama bound,
It was a big blue bus
With black people in it.

TO MY MOTHER ON HER BIRTHDAY

2008-11-29T07:49:00.004+01:00

An old high-school photograph of my mother;
Seventeen, long dark blond hair,
Large brown eyes.
I am twenty,

Still, in this photograph she looks older
Than I will ever be.
She could never have been selfish and confused
Like me.

Now the recent photo.
Mom and me in the back of that rental car;
The Spain trip.
Her face aged by forty more summers

And her hair turned brown, now gray
Still, those brown eyes
Like Venus de Milo's, Lady Liberty's,
As if for her only,

Learning is experience.
All she has seen shows truth.
I am incapable of seeing anything.
And even in that old photo,

She already knew.
That gravity moves at 32 feet per second, per second -
They knew that when they flew to the moon.
That all men are created equal -
They knew that when they shot Dr. King.

O mom! Business majors shall inherit the earth,
They stare at me when I crawl past the Gallagher Business Building
On my way to choir:
My idea of heaven is a dollar store.

Can I make any sense out of it?
But those eyes, like Montana summer sun,
Absolve all my reason
And leave only wise wonder in its place.

IMPRINTS OF LEAVES ON UNIVERSITY SIDEWALK

2008-10-15T00:02:00.001+02:00

Grey cement reaching for miles
I dream of walking around in
An eternity.

I stop to see the imprint of a leaf.

The five pointed shape
With veins, stem like a backbone
Holes rotted through,
Cancer?
All preserved on a five foot square
Of grey cement,
Not an eighth inch deep, still,
An eternity.

Alexander is stopping a bunghole.

And it is fall again;
Students and leaves
Are as abundant
As they are meaningless.

What makes this one special?
O, I wish to be cast in cement next to it.

But I am no simple leaf.

And when my body is burned
And I am spread along the mountains,
Rugged Alaskan Mountains
Where there are no paths,
What imprint will I leave?

I’d write a book. I’d write ten thousand!
If they would just be
As ambitionless,
As eternal,
As this leaf.

One in a million
That walked one fall on these paths,
What imprint will I leave!

An Encounter

2008-06-18T19:14:00.001+02:00

Wrapped in a jacket of nostalgia
Like all my great loves,
Were a scribbled-upon library book and her corduroyed arm.

We kissed goodbye as strangers,
Southerners
Of antiquity!
Hear my tambourine?

The minute was the minute
But she was my canyon
And I was her stream.

What the bums said

2008-06-01T20:22:00.001+02:00

It’s a plum cake.
That’s what the nuns said.
We bought it from them yesterday down the hill at their mission where they live.
We are giving it to you in thanks;
You let us stay a night in your flat.
You didn’t even know us.
That was a nice thing to do.
It’s a plum cake.
That’s what they said.

Cosmic turns in the hallway through the most beautiful gallery of destiny

2008-05-19T00:37:00.000+02:00

This weekend started with a mexicana dinner party that I held for a few of my friends in my piso. I fried up some beans and chicken, bell peppers, rice and some other goodies. We ate up and listened to mariachi music until about three! It was a great time. Matteo and I also worked in some jamming which has become a welcomed motif in my piso around Friday night.

Then in the morning, Maria and I went hiking in Monachil; one of my favorite nearby mountain towns. Above the town there is a canyon that is truly beautiful. It’s about a mile long and made up of tall walls and pillars. The trail is well maintained with hanging Indiana-Jones-style bridges and a cement wall you walk and crawl along the top of as it bows and bends up, over and around the beautiful rocks, like a cat scurrying across rooftops of the most beautiful and natural city. At one point you pass through a tunnel! Another part is like a long, turning hallway with almost perfectly straight walls on both sides. In this spot there were many rock climbers and as Maria said, “We are walking through the hallway of a gallery and they are the paintings dangling from the walls like living portraits.”

Further up, the canyon opened to rocky alpine meadows. There was an abandoned farmhouse along the trail. Outside the house was a rusty old water duct wheel with handles like the helm of a whaling ship. I couldn’t help thinking of the 90’s computer game, “Myst.” Maybe if I turned the wheel the direction of the stream would change, driving a watermill that would mechanically lift an elevator to an unknown chamber of a tower holding the secret historical manuscripts of the mysterious deserted island city!

The magic that led to my overactive imagination was the quietness. The slight wind through the valley silenced all other sounds and we were alone. Suddenly the maze of our hike through the canyon, meadows, farm, was full of puzzles and hidden meanings. Every stone, every bridge, every winding branch had it’s coveted significance that was just out of reach. like Kundera says in the ULB, "On the surface, an intelligible lie; underneath, the unintelligible truth showing through." It was just like playing Myst; the puzzles were eminent and important but a little too hard to crack as a ten-year-old. Their subtle clues added to my curiosity and assurance that there is always more than meets the eye - We think ourselves capable of defining truths!? - ha!

We had a picnic and good conversation in a meadow below a towering cliff, overlooking the valley below. My soul was resonating in the peaceful scene like a choir in a dark old stone Spanish church. When we made it out of the canyon and back to the bar by the bus station, I was physically tired from the hike and emotionally silenced by the beauty that surrounded me.

After the hike I went for tapas with Maria and Karine (the French Canadian) at La Toturga. The bar is run by a charming old butch Española who does indeed resemble a “tortuga.” There I randomly bumped into one of my best friends in Granada, Markus. I left the Tortuga with him and some of his Viennese friends. We wandered through the streets speaking Spanish, English and German and eventually ended up at a tapas bar in my neighborhood called “La Candela.” There Markus told me his dream:

He was walking through a canyon (not unlike the one in Monachil) with his brother when they came to a bridge. Seeing the bridge, his brother turned to Markus and said, very seriously, “Tonight you will learn how to fly to the moon.”

Markus thought, “¡Joder! What are these poetic words coming from my brother’s mouth?” then Markus turned around and his brother had vanished.

He thought about heading back but decided he must follow the trail. Cautiously crossing the bridge day changed quickly but evenly into night and by the time he made it to the other side it was completely dark. He was now out of the canyon and in a thick pinewood forest. Out of the darkness he saw two sets of bright white eyes. The light from the eyes at first blinded him, even from a great distance. Soon his eyes adjusted and he saw that the eyes belonged two wolves! He was frightened but forced himself to be calm and admit to the fate of his dream. One of the wolves spoke to him, “Tonight you will learn how to fly to the moon.”

Then the wolves led him above the trees to the mountaintop. There the full moon shone bright and the wolves began to howl. Markus began to sing in his flamenco voice. Soon his voice tuned itself to the wolves’ howl and they were all howling together. Markus felt his body lift and soar towards the moon higher and higher as he continued his howl!

My spirit needed this weekend. I feel like it was given to me as a gift at exactly the right time. My grandma died last week and this Saturday, the day of the hike and howls, was also the day of her funeral. My parents and my sister were there, in Pennsylvania. I wanted to come but could not. This temporary separation from my family in a hard time and the permanent separation from grandma in death, made me feel very sad and alone here in Spain. I cut all my hair off, I stayed in my room and read, I got sick and worn out. I tried to lock myself away from the gravity of the the world. Any feelings of homesickness I had were multiplied fifty times and I felt so isolated. Then, as I hosted my friends in my piso, wove through the secret meanings hidden in the canyon and thought about the eerie pertinence of Markus’ dream, I felt connected to something. Even if it was less than "intelligible." Be it good food and music, nature, friends and family, or the cosmic turns in the hallway through the most beautiful gallery of destiny, I felt peace. I felt my soul lifting like Markus after he had succumb to the scary wolves in the dark forest and decided he would let himself fly to the moon.

Shuffle continued: Essay for Musical Communication and Critique Class

2008-05-11T23:05:00.000+02:00

I) Notas de La Enciclopedia de New Grove
1) Características de la Autenticidad en la música
a) El uso de instrumentos de la época,
b) Fidelidad a los deseos del componente original
c) Una re-creación del contexto del ejecución original
d) “Attempt to re-create the musical experience of the original audience”(241)
e) El termino, “Historically aware/informed performances” ahora esta mas usado
porque la palabra “autentico” implica verdad objetivo que seria verdad y correcto en cualquier lugar o tiempo. Sin embargo, en los tres décadas pasadas, la idea de un concierto ‘autentico’ ya ha cambiado mucho.

2) Critica negativa
a) Ejecuciones informados “Attempt to re-create the musical experience of the
orignal audience” eso es muy difícil, naive y elite.
b) Elitismo cultural; ¿Otros ejecuciones no son auténticos? ¿Por que?
(¿ejemplo? Bob Dylan quien tome una tipa de música antigua y lo cambio poniéndolo vanguardia y entonces, elite.)
c) Ninguno concierto puede ser exactamente “autentico.”
d) Muchos aspectos de ejecución han cambiado (la idea de una ejecución
autentica es uno!)
e)Es ingenio pensar que los oyentes pueden tener la misma experiencia como
tuvieron en el pasado.
f) Las barreras culturales entre el pasado y ahora son tan grande como cualquier barrera producido por distancia física. Así que un concierto “autentico” pueda perder su componente mas importante; la audiencia.

3) El Postmodernismo sus síntomas
a)El deseo o “craving” por la autenticidad es algo postmoderno. Es una reacción a
la globalización que, con el capitalismo y Mas-media nos ha desconectado de nuestra historia cultural.
b)The influx of media and capitalism weakens our ‘historicity’ “this means that
we are no longer aware of our place within human history and are not so able to appreciate ourselves as historically conditioned beings.”(p.242) nos sentimos perdidos y solos en nuestro tiempo.
c) Por eso, muchos humanos en el mundo postmoderno buscan ordenen
definición y propósito. Fundamentalistas religiosos son un ejemplo; por usando leyes viejos buscan la un-ambigüedad. Quizás la diferencia entre la vida hoy y la vida de antigüedad queda en el sigue de estas tradiciones. La autenticidad en música intenta de revivir una época de música cuando humanos se sentían en su lugar.

TYRRELL, John (ed.). The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians 2nd Edition. Volume 2 of 21. London: Macmillan Publishers Limited, 2001.

It is a very scary thing to live in the postmodern world. We are so isolated from our past and feel lost. Postmodern sentiments in art (like “Authentic” concerts) became popular in the first half of the 20th century with the aftermath of massive wars and the ever-increasing presence of technology and mass communication. Population growth, technology and therein too, art, have expanded exponentially and violently. This leaves us with a feeling of being cut off from the gradual and directional continuance of culture that, until recently, was normal. We are now, more than ever, confused and insecure with our roll in history and the meaning of existance.
One natural reaction to this would be to dive back into our past and try to make it a part of our lives once again. This is a noble idea; our identity is utterly important. But perhaps it is too late. Perhaps we have changed so much in the past 50-90 years that to try to connect ourselves to anything before would be false and a lie.

This is often the case with authentic recreations in music. So much about the musicians, composers and especially the listeners has changed that the music of antiquity (beyond the academic sense) is inapplicable. The best approach to take is to acknowledge that things have changed and try to redefine ourselves based on the present. Communicate with audiences and see what they like. We may be in a completely new era but we are not crippled by anything else but our nostalgia. We need to look forward and see what good we can bring to art. Dwelling on the past will not do anything for us because it is now, in the postmodern era, too far removed.
Recreations of concerts can be of academic value but beyond that I would agree with most of the criticism listed above. For the most part they are done out of nostalgic fantasy for a time that has passed and will never return. Furthermore, there is almost no way to recreate the thing as a whole and so you kind of have to lie to yourself to make it work. And if it is taken out of cultural and historical context, the audience cannot relate to the concert and they become even more lost.
However, in the historically informed film, “Eroica” (2003, Simon Cellan Jones) we saw an interesting example of a recreated concert, where the audience was also recreated. Infused with political and musical commentary, costumes, beer and food of the time, we were able to see the novelty and explosiveness of this symphony in context; a characteristic that many recreations lack. The recreated audience was able to react to the symphony and give us this contextualization.This 1804 concert by Beethoven was submersed in political and musical controversy; Napoleon’s political advances over Europe and the individualistic evolution of composers to the status of artist. Without people there to discus and contextualize these controversies, the significance of the concert would be lost to almost all except the most historically wise of viewers. In this sense, the recreated concert and it’s audience eliminated the elitism often found in other authentic recreations. Anyone who likes music, academically trained to appreciate it or not, could enjoy this film and realize the what led Haydn to say at the end of the film, “From this day, everything is different.”
Beethoven’s struggle to expose himself as an individual and an artist is a theme that still applies today. Young artist still face the stubborn opinions of the older generations who do not appreciate their work. Also, thanks to romanticism, which Beethoven was at the cusp of, the artist has become a small god in our society. With that final line the film was made applicable to current audiences, and it will continue to apply to them in the future. This film achieved something that very few historical recreations ever do; applicability.

إفريقيا

2008-05-11T21:40:00.000+02:00

Hello people of the English-speaking world. I, Ross Voorhees, have discovered a new continent! It’s called Africa and it is very close to Spain, about a half hour south by boat to be exact. The people there do not call it Africa though. No no, they call it “l’Afrique” or even إفريقيا !

The Africans in fact have many cities. I was only adventurous enough for two (this time around!); “Tangier” and “Marrakech.” Both lie in a country that is called “Morocco.”

I went with three other brave adventuristas; Erica, Maria and Hermina and while the journey was strange and at times difficult, dangerous and wild! I enjoyed it very much.

There were rooftop parties with ex-pat artists, Arabic discos, night trains, dirt cheap hotels and cafés, snake charmers, monkey handlers, mystical dancers, labyrinths of old streets and shops called “medinas” and surprisingly enough, really nice and cool people. (View of the Place Djemma El Fna from the Hotel de France in Marrakech; Home to such rarities listed above.)

I made friends with one of the locals there in Marrakech, in the Café de France. His name was Lahsen and was studying English. He had a good friend studying Spanish but not English. We drank powerful ginger and mint teas and talked about our families in two or three languages. Lahsen has five siblings! I told him about Americans; how they really like family too.(Weighing the Good and the Bad with Maria.)

I will go back to the Café de France soon, hopefully run into Lahsen again. Maybe even venture out into the untamed and uncharted desert that surrounds the city. Until then I am relaxing back in Granada and trying to figure out the best was to say “stubborn” in Spanish.(Tangier at dusk)

(Waiting for the Marrakech Express)

(Cafe Hafa in Tangier, old Beat hang-out.)

El Gran Espectaculo Internacional De Musica!

2008-05-10T14:24:00.000+02:00

Thursday night there was a concert for us international students. It was held in a big amphitheatre on campus. A huge group of international and local kids showed up to watch. I played five songs, three with Annichka from the Czech Republic and Matteo from Italy. And two with Sara from Italy. With the first group we played Evan’s song that I posted a couple months ago. We also played one of Matteo’s songs called “Friendship is a different thing,” and a Czech jazz classic that Annichka sang and who’s name I couldn’t begin to pronounce, much less spell. With Sara, I played a 90’s pop song in English that she liked called “The Sea” and then “O’sole mio,” as a waltz which was really Italian a fun, I added a little harmony at the end, “STAN FRONT A TE!”

The concert was really a blast. There were other guitarists and singers, some dances and a clown act. It was as eclectic as we were, coming from all over the world. At the end of the show we chose to cheese it up a bit with the whole group singing "We are the world" and "Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da."

It had been so long since I had preformed, and it made me really happy. It put me in such a good mood. Afterwards all the musicians and I went out for tapas until one in the morning. I met Karine from Montreal and worked on my French a bit too. Tomorrow she and I going hiking!

Here are some Pics. (Thanks Nic!)

Actually the title of this blog is a bit redundant; it’s a given that in it’s best form music is international.

On the way home from the tapas bar Sara and I were singing “O sole mio” with authentic drunken Italian accents. We passed the translations faculty building and ran into an old Congolese sage. We all held hands for a moment and sang together. He told us that because of globalization we’re all foreigners and so therefore there are no foreigners at all.

With globalization Music is becoming more pure. It is shedding its local color. It sheds language and genre. No one asks it to express anything but itself. By becoming less defined it becomes less limited. It’s really “a different thing.” As we too shed our national identities we gain a worldliness and universality. As was posted above the stage at the concert, we are “abriendo fronteras.” Opening borders. We’re changing, expanding, learning.

Shuffle

2008-04-22T18:03:00.000+02:00

“You say it’s your birthday? It’s my birthday too. Yeah…”
I think it is… I think!
BEEP...
Oap! Radio Head’s dirge-ing again, “We suck young blood,”
Am I still young? What’s coming up next?
BEEP…
Tom waits says, “The army ants leave nothing but your bones!”
My God! That’s SOO relevant! NO! Nothing’s relevant to ME! Right? Okay, mooooving on;
BEEP…
The Decemberists, “Of angels and angles”
What’s that doing there?
BEEP!
Bob Dylan’s telling me to “Do it well,”
‘It?’ Well Bob, if you say so it must be true.
BEEP…
Billie Holiday’s singing “As time goes by”
Will they REALLY still fall in love? Sad but beautiful! ~~Sad~~ but ~~beautiful~~! Ambiguous.
BEEP…
Kaiser Chiefs!! “This is the modern way!”
Yeah, if it’s anything at all.

You’ve just taken a journey through the depths (one WHOLE gigabyte) of my iPod Shuffle.
It’s a fine metaphor for my conscience. This blog of mine is too.
The postmodern brain is so scattered! Fragmented. Superficial. Rushed.
What happened to direction?
What happened to confidence!?
Knowing what you want?

Ducks go quack!
Technology
Humans
Technology
Go
Technology
Type!
Technology

Cultural Conservatives

2008-04-17T00:43:00.000+02:00

I'm unsure about this now. I think one lesson to be learned from bullfighting is that life brings many changes (death being one of them) and you have to deal with them all. Globalization is another change we all have to acknowledge. To deny it is simply closed thinking. It always hurts to lose some part of your identity but identity is something that is never stagnant. (See “If I were a building…”) You can fret about the things you've lost or you can revel in the beautiful change those losses bring about in you.

And what Irony! Soon bullfighting might die just as the bulls do.

This might be of use!

2008-04-16T00:11:00.000+02:00

This will be my premise to the science blogs. enjoy!!!

La Corrida, “¡Como la Vida Misma!”

2008-04-15T19:57:00.000+02:00

Yesterday I went to my first bullfight. It was an afternoon packed full of extreme beauty and ugliness. The best adjective I can think of is “fuerte.”

First of all, I went with two very beautiful girls: my Italian neighbor, Sara, and my Spanish friend, Lola. Lola was our “aficionada” and told me all about the bullfights as well as gave me a Spanish bullfight vocab lesson, which I will try to relay to you here. She said she has been attending bullfights since she was very young and has a great love for them however, she fears that in a few years there will be no more bullfights in Spain.

At six o’clock we crammed into the bullring (La Plaza de Toros in Granada). It was a big beautiful brick bullring built in the thirties (about the time Hemingway was hanging out here.) It had three steep levels of stands. My friends and I were on the top level and it was crammed. I felt like we might all fall off onto the sand and blood cover floor of the bullring at any moment! The entire three hours I was there I was squished between Lola to my left, some French guy to my right (who was spitting sunflower seeds the whole time. They got all over me!), my back was between the knees of an old fat Spanish guy and between my knees was the back of some young fat Spanish guy. Even in these close proximities, everyone was eating, drinking and smoking to excess. In Spain I’m in the process of learning to let go of several things, one of them being my personal space. Just to be surrounded by so many people in that way, with big energetic faces, gobbling down “bocadillos” (sandwiches) and “vino tinto” (red wine) and cheering at the same time, it gave you that worried and irreversible feeling you get in a dream when you realize the dream is out of your hands. At some point you have to relax and go along with it and forget about your individuality for a bit. I think that’s one beauty that is often missed in the US; the pagan power and energy of antiquity that comes from having so many people packed tight and chanting in unison. (Another good European example of this are the discos!) Sure, football games are a similar phenomena but I don’t think you could say that people share themselves among the group like they do here. The Spanish verb to cheer is “animar,” to animate. The crowd is as much a part of bullfighting as the bullfighter and his bull.

Anyway, the bullfight started with a procession of all the bullfighters and helpers involved. Then two men came out on horseback with purple velvet costumes to signal the official star. By the time it was all over eight men had killed eight bulls. (The usual number is six but this was a special case, I think because it was the first one of the season or some of the fighters were still amateurs.)

The dynamics of bullfighting are as artful as anything. The agile movements of the bullfighters put up against the sheer strength of the bulls is very much an artistic expression. The bull starts out running through the ring, charging at some of the helpers’ red capes. An equestrian comes out on an armored steed and the bull charges at him. This is done for five minutes or so before one of the helpers puts the 4 to 6 “banderillas” in his back. (Short barb-tipped spears colored with the colors of Spain and Andalusia’s flags) Lola told me they are not used, as I had thought, to tire the bull for the bullfighter, but rather to bring down his blood pressure a bit. The excitement of the bullfight would be too much and the bull would die of a heart attack without them.

The placing of the banderillas in the bull is impressive. The helper has to run backwards and jump in front of the bull as he charges, stabbing two spears at a time with both hands into the bull’s shoulders. This part looks very much like a dance, he leaps like a ballerina to stab and then continues running backwards, watching the angry bull, sometimes close enough to put a hand between the bull’s horns.

When the bandarillas have been placed, the bullfighter comes out. He throws his hat into the center of the ring and shouts to the audience and they shout back, “animating” him. He passes the bull back and forth with his cape, trying to get as close as possible to the horns. The more smoothly he moves and the closer he gets without using any fancy tricks, the more “valiente” he is and that is what the judges like. Each good pass receives an “¡olé!” from the audience.At the end, when both the bull and the bullfighter are very tired, the bullfighter has to kill the bull. He stands in front of the bull and lines up his sword (espalda) for the crucial spot between the bull’s neck and shoulders. He charges at the bull and the bull charges back. He drives the sword all the way through and the bull starts “poniéndose de mano” or bucking. When done right, the bull dies quickly by falling forward onto his knees. He is draged off through the sand by two large horses called "mulas."If the bullfighter performs well, he receives one or two of the bulls ears, and maybe the tail; all of which he throws into the stands. Also, a good fighter receives “botas” or leather bags of wine, hats and flowers thrown from the crowd. The audience will wave white handkerchiefs to communicate to the judges that they liked the fight. The bullfighter makes a leisurely victory lap around the ring to receive all his praise.

The bullfighters wear a traditional suite called “traje de luces,” or suite of lights. This may seem like an ironic name for the suite for someone with such a dark profession of fighting and killing and who by the end of each fight is covered in blood. The truth is that in no Spanish description of bullfighters or bullfights do they use the word “fight.” It’s really more of a dance than a fight. Bullfighter is “torero.” “Matador” means killer in Spanish but here they only say “torero.” Simply, “bull-man” is the best literal translation I can summon. And bullfight is “la corrida,” meaning a “run” or “dash,” and also, interesting enough, “continuous.” (Ah, ¡Así es la vida!)

It is a beautiful and terrible thing to behold but life brings us these extremes in the very same way. You cannot ignore them or write them off just because you’re not in the mood to deal with them. At some point we all must live, love and die. A bullfight represents these fundamental parts of the human experience in a bold, no nonsense way and I like it.

But yes I would agree, there are many issues to be taken against the corrida. The most valid I can think of being the spectacle of it but humans kill animals every day, the only difference is that it is done in cages or behind fences so we don’t see the killing. In contrast to most the domestic animal world, corrida bulls live privileged lives. They are well fed and given lots of space and freedom. They live and die respectfully.

I can understand how when people come together to watch and enjoy the act of killing, it brings up a moral question; “Is this really acceptable of civilized humans?” And it was indeed uncomfortable for me to hear people laughing about the killings or shouting things to the toreros like “Hey good-lookin’, kill him already!” But I feel I am in no place to judge. This is a very old tradition in Spain and people here identify with it. It is a part of their culture. Even if it is cruel and wasteful by Anglo-Saxon standards (although we manage to be very cruel and wasteful in our own ways), humans need things like this. The killing helps many Spaniards live because it is a tradition and brings them meaning. (Meaningfulness: a topic I will get back to with the science blogs, just wait.)

Throughout Europe, cultural conservatives, like Lola, are feeling the strains of globalization and the diluting of their cultures. The corrida is “a high point of darkness and light.” (to quote a Bob Dylan song out of context.) To get rid of it would rid a people of a beautiful thing and isolate them from their past. Outsiders have no say in it.

Yes, bullfighting is a spectacle of killing but it is done respectfully, artistically and beautifully. It is a bold image of strength and love for life. It is an ingenious portrait of life’s main and most powerful themes. It is an art, an expression, like no other.
PS
I realize this is a rather extreme view. As always, I would really like to see some comments. What do you guys think?!

Anger

2008-04-13T13:51:00.000+02:00

I would consider myself a thoughtful person. That shouldn’t seem too outrageous a thing to say; by writing a blog and expecting some people to read it I’m pretty much saying the same thing. I’m a splatter painter of ideas. My head is a mess and, while that’s pretty fun, when it comes to people it can be dangerous.

I have recently hurt a very good friend of mine by splattering some nasty thoughts and judging her too quickly. I’m really mad at myself about it too. It’s crucial to not be too critical. I KNEW that but I let my insecurities and bipolarity get in the way. Now I fear I have broken our trust. It's likely that she will not be comfortable to communicate with me in the future and for that I feel very guilty and sad.

Almost always we project our own insecurities onto other people. If you’re really mad at someone, first try to calm down. Get some exercise or listen to some calming music, eat a big bowl of tomato soup -what ever you do to calm down- then, when you’re cool as can be, look at YOURSELF really closely. Most times your anger will have more to do with your own problems than with the other person’s.

This is not exactly news and I don't think Im in a position to give advice to anyone on the matter; you all know yourselves better than I do. I just want to give a heads up. A warning. Anger is so powerful. It is an emotional AND physical state. when you are angry you're physically not in your normal state of mind, just like a drug. You feel that burning in your stomach and it’s easy to get worked up, let your thoughts splatter and say things you don’t mean. DON"T DO THAT!!! It’s absolutely tragic. You can lose some good friends because of it and that’s one of the saddest things I can think of.

What a week!

2008-04-12T19:09:00.000+02:00

I’m going to get those science blogs up, I promise. I’ve just been really busy lately. This week especially, I seem to have spread myself out real thin like a slice of soft butter over one big ol’piece of wholegrain bread that I call life. Socially, musically, academically, athletically, linguistically, I’ve been as active as ever. I hope that when I have time to rest and write, all the things I have been doing will pool up in my head and come out in the form of some killer blogs. Until then, I hope you are all enjoying life or at least thinking about it real hard. Stay on the bright side! (Ha! Right. Tomorrow I’m going to a bullfight! Well, all the proceeds go to charity and that’s positive, if a little ironic.)

Lots of thoughts today:

2008-04-10T00:55:00.000+02:00

In general terms, I don’t think you can say much about countries, much less human beings. If there is one constant in humans’ nature it is their attempt to wrongly define human nature. That said, I think the fact that so many humans try to define themselves shows one thing; we like definitions.

(I was just reading this cool article about French Theory and how science and religion are the same because they both use misleading words to define the Universe by human standards; definitions lead to other definitions and we’re left in confusion. Not to say confusion is always a bad thing.)

I’ve been thinking about order and chaos, I’ve been thinking about symmetry and beauty. I’ve been thinking about sound and noise and silence. I’ve been thinking about existence and nothingness.

The next few blogs will consist of my interpretations of a few scientific phenomena. It’s going to take some research, but that’s okay, I’m feeling nerdy. Just be patient.

Scott quote

2008-04-07T01:28:00.000+02:00

This is what my roommate, Scott, said today while watching a YouTube video,

"People online are so weird."

I think he's right.

Cities

2008-04-06T21:12:00.001+02:00

So I’ve been reading Evan’s blog and thinking about him over there in Japan, surrounded by Babely sky scrapers, hovercraft cars, video arcade mini-cites, slave robots and discothèques électroniques. I wonder what he thinks of that environment. It’s a big change from Missoula, that’s for sure. As he would say, “It’s real good for the ol’imagination-station to think about you over there!”
Today, thanks to reading and thinking about Evan, my ol’imagination-staion has brought me to cities in general. So far I’ve come up with this:
There are many negative parts to cities. Obviously, pollution sucks. Also, People can loose touch of their earthy sides and become sort of halfway space creatures that are always floating in an unnatural habitat, which while super interesting, can be scary and isolating/suck. Cities can seem cold and dark. They can seem fake and unhealthy. Consumerism can make you sick. People throw away old but still useful things to buy new shiny ones. They devalue the earth by wasting its resources and they devalue themselves by living insincere and superficial lives. In the end, cities can make you feel confused or just skeptical of the evolution of mankind.
But cities can also be really cool and fun and good! To me, cities are like compost piles for cultures. People come together with their life styles, music, foods and ideas; they mix and sit in the sun; they stink a little bit; they settle and even out and eventually you have a big ripe pile of rich organic fuel that can be used to grow beautiful things. Where compost piles turn into soil for veggies and flowers, cities turn into exciting places to live from which people can identify themselves, socialize and begin to create art. I live in a city called Granada. It’s a charming city with buildings older than old and hip kids younger than young. So far I’ve been pretty impressed by what Granada has to offer. I like the opportunities it brings me; if I would live in a small town in Alaska all my life, its very likely that I would never get to meet anyone from Greece, see a Tango concert, eat Turkish döner kebab or learn a second language. All these things enrich my life and make me happy.
What’s more, tonight I’m going out with a Spanish girl! Where else but in a big happenin’ city like this one could an Alaskan boy and a Spanish girl meet by a big beautiful old fountain, colored with green and blue and orange lights, go drink coffees in a dirty café, and then see a jazz concert?! Sure there are a lot of bad things about cities and, while it’s pretty easy to dwell on them, that’s negative and backwards thinking! Both humans and cities will always have some bad parts but they will also always have some good parts. You just have to choose where to focus your energy.

Evan!

2008-04-06T18:47:00.000+02:00

I have a very good friend named Evan.He is an exchange student in Japan this year and writes a blog too called ‘space case.’ You can check it out at http://www.evanholmstrom.blogspot.com. He is a very creative and funny guy. It was mostly his blog that inspired me to start my own. It’s a good blog and you should read it.

He wrote one entry in October called ‘spider web limbo’ all about a solo hike he took into the wilderness outside his city of Kumamoto in southern Japan. He described it as a small but welcomed spiritual diffusion into nature after being surrounded by his modern city for so long. I was missing him a lot and got excited and wrote him a song. It goes like this:

Evan woke up
In between the spider webs
In between the talking heads
And he was all alone.

It wasn’t night
But it surely wasn’t day
He went along his way
In search of a home.

The trail led up
Then split into fractals
Escher-esk pterodactyls
There was never an end.

Evan you were the first man
Didn’t you know it?
You were there in the beginning
Just like Eve!
And Evan, I’m breaking you into chapters
And I’m reading you on the bus.

Beneath the leaves
Of ancient architecture
Like a spiritual lecture
He found the home of his dreams.

The city is not yours
There is another jungle
An antiquated struggle
An unheard scream.(I wish I knew someway to put a recording up here so you could hear the song. If anyone knows a way to do that they should let me know.)

A Delay

2008-04-04T16:20:00.000+02:00

Jacob was a young college student until he quit school to travel the world. He read Kerouac and bought a backpack. He went to San Francisco, New York, Mexico City. He liked bicycles but the world was too big so he used buses. Sometimes he would fall asleep on the bus and dream of elephants walking in massive herds across Africa or giant sperm whales swimming the oceans of the world for one hundred years, alone. He would dream of his father and old men he saw on the streets of these cities. They would pop up in random familiar places like his middle school English class or the supermarket. They all had big old faces with droopy cheeks and crooked jaws. They had raised families and worn suits. They had drunk beer in bars with other old men and talked about great dictators and football and women and how there was work to be done. So much work in the world! It was a great place! One of progress and reason.

He fell asleep one afternoon on the bus ride from Seattle to Boise and when he woke up a strange woman was sitting next to him. She smelled bad and had pearl earrings.

“Are you traveling alone?” she asked him, after noticing he was awake.

“Yeah, I mean, I might meet up with some people in Boise but I’m alone now.”

“Me too. I’m going to see the west! Never been out here before.” She had a strong southern accent. “I’ve got some family out here though. I’ll be staying with them. It’s cheaper that way, you know!”

He replied, “Yep,” and continued to stare out the window, avoiding her conversation. The landscape was flat and rocky. The sky was cloudy. It would soon be dark.

The bus had stopped at a gas station an hour and a half outside of Boise so people could use the bathrooms and buy a coffee. It was nighttime now and some passengers were outside smoking cigarettes. Behind the bus and away from the lights of the station, Jacob saw four red lights cherrying in front of grey faces. He got off the bus and rolled some dry tobacco, smoking by himself in the dark.

They lined up and got back on the bus at 9:39. At 9:47 they were pulling out of the parking lot and 9:48 the bus stopped. Some one screamed and the passengers were worriedly looking around, seeing only their reflections against the black windows of the bus.

They waited like this for a while until the bus driver had gone down to the street and come back and could tell them what had happened; a man had been hit by the bus as he was trying to cross the road on a dark corner. He was now lying in the street with one leg kicking and a straight arm swinging about. His friend was holding him. Their bodies were that dark grey color which made them less distinguishable as if they were made of tree bark or sand.

All the passengers went out of the bus and were standing around. Jacob thought he would be sick. Another bus would come and pick them all up in an hour. His trip had been delayed. He retreated to the other side of the bus and sat down on the curb. He was thinking about those sperm whales and all that time they had!

O day and night, but this is wondrous strange!

2008-03-30T20:38:00.000+02:00

As I said before, last week was Semana Santa. When I wasn’t at the beach in Cabo de Gata I was watching the religious processions throughout Granada and they were very strange to me. They involved manpowered floats, carrying a statue of either a beautiful Virgin or a gruesome portrayal of Jesus in one of the stages of his crucifixion. Also there would be men running through the crowd in costumes that, besides sometimes varying in color, perfectly resembled the ghostlike costumes of the KKK. Thousands of beeswax candles, a meter in length. So much incense it filled the streets and made you cough. Women dressed in black with sad mouths and big brown Spanish eyes. Marching bands playing dark, minor anthems as heavy as death.
The spectacle of the whole thing was a little more than I could handle. I found myself uncomfortable with the seriousness people placed on these floats which, although beautiful, were just made of wood and metal. I suppose this reaction came from growing up in a very protestant part of the US that takes pride in its neglect or disgust for ‘the image.’ A place where backyards look like the western front and people wear sweatpants to work.
While the processions were weird and new to me, I like this use of imagery. It’s very powerful. Sometimes, when I’m on a culture shock low, I think that Spaniards are too into the image, focusing on consumer goods and fashion instead of more important things like sincere conversations with friends and asking big questions. BUT, I also wish people wouldn’t be afraid of images. They can be used for good things. I guess the power of images is as two-sided as anything.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy; I think humans worship images for the same reasons that they despise them; they are powerful, fleeting and mysterious. The Universe is beyond the grasp of humans and images that strike a primeval, animalistic chord (scaring or pleasing us) give us wonder and remind us of that.

If I were a building...

2008-03-28T12:53:00.001+01:00

People change, the world changes. Gracias a Dios!! It would be a very boring place if it were not so. We have new experiences that affect us greatly and then we cannot be what we were before. We are always trading one identity for a new one; we loose faith in one idea and find it in others. Sometimes we can choose to change, sometimes it just happens, surprises us. We go home and feel a stranger. Today I went to the Alhambra with David, a childhood friend who came to visit me this week. The Alhambra is an amazing palace of Moorish architecture. At onetime it was the center of a kingdom that valued the cultural mingling between Arabic, Jewish and Christian communities. It was the home of libraries and monasteries. Throughout the palace, written on the walls in Arabic are the words “There is no conqueror but God;” a pacifistic interpretation of the Koran. The subjects of the kingdom of Granada lived peacefully under this ideal for almost 800 years until the catholic kings re-conquered the peninsula in 1492, killing or deporting all Muslims and Jews. Since then the Alhambra has been home to various Spanish rulers such as Isabel and Ferdinand (who were mainly responsible for the re-conquest as well as the funding of Columbus’s encounter with new world) and their grandson, Emperor Carlos V who destroyed part of the palace to build a renaissance theatre/bull ring. In 1812 Napoleon’s forces occupied and looted it and then left it, all but abandoned for many years. It has now been restored and has become one of the most popular tourists cites in southern Spain. Throughout it’s long history, the Alhambra has seen many changes but has retained its simplistic name meaning “the red fort.” In the same way, I have always been called Ross Voorhees, a less simple name but one just as static; when I was a baby, my parents called me that. When my family moved to the UK and I went to pre-school for the first time with cowboy boots on, I was called that. When I got into a snowball fight at Ravenwood Elementary and the principle called me down to her office, she called me that. When I got my Eagle Scout award and everyone was so proud of me, I was called that. But each one of those Ross Voorheeses was someone different.

Now in Spain, I feel like the Alhambra; tossing aside one identity while putting on a new one. This change comes with much excitement but also sometimes fear, insecurity and nostalgia for the things I have lost. People change just like kingdoms. Spain is becoming a part of me and I am becoming a small part of it. Neither of us will ever be the same again.

This is our beach

2008-03-24T13:37:00.000+01:00

Last week was Semana Santa (Holy Week) and I didn’t have school. With some of this free time I chose to go to the beach. I went to the Almeria province which is tucked in the southeastern corner of Spain. Two very good people accompanied me, Anichka from the Czech Republic and Markus (whom I affectionately call Fancy Zorba) from Austria. While there we met up with some friends; a German girl, two Hungarian girls and a boy from the Czech Republic. We camped out three nights on a large beach called Genoveses outside the town of San Jose. It is part of a small but beautiful natural park called Cabo de Gata. I brought my guitar and it was really very nice. We all drove back in one big green volkswagon van called 'the frog.'

This is our beach
Where Fancy Zorba told me about the Myth of Sisyphus.
Where I taught him to play ‘Riders on the storm’ on the guitar and to drawl a golden rectangle in the sand.
Where we drank cold instant coffee and ate sardines and talked about our fathers.
Where we climbed a mountain and swam in the sea.
Where I learned from him and he learned from me.

There were very few tourists in Cabo de Gata however, I did have one kind of nasty encounter. It was early our first morning on the beach and I got up to walk a little before the others woke. I had gotten dressed and was moving towards the ocean. I came across an old couple pushing their bicycles through the sand, breathing heavily. They were both wearing matching Gilligan’s island hats. I said to the misses, ‘Buenos días!” and she gave me the strangest look. Again, I greeted her, ‘Buenos días.’ Still with that dumbfounded look she replied, ‘Bonjour!’

I thought this quite harmless and laughed a little as I walked on but, in principle, what a travesty! People need to learn at least some basics before traveling to a different country, its only polite.

We're Not All Bad

2008-03-22T10:58:00.000+01:00

I was once a pessimist. a sickly, listening-to-tom-waits-reading-sartre pessimist. Life can be ugly. Humans can seem strange, distant and fake. It’s true. We are a hideous, absurd thing on this beautiful planet. I was tortured by this reality; that we will never find purpose and that eventually everyone will die and be forgotten. That the world will be exploited and polluted until we forget what a forest feels like. That books will be replaced by video games. That good ideas will be pushed aside for good money. That everything is going down hill and there is no such thing as progress. I felt so alone.

And yes, we are a tumbling mass of miscommunications and selfishness but like Zorba's zip line; nothing ever fell so beautifully as we. I am learning to embrace the chaotic and dark side of our existence. A task that before I thought quite impossible.
I am able to because I have come more aware of the other side of humans; the side of art, the side that drinks wine and dances in the sand, the side that cries when realizing the Perfect Chaos listed above. The side that shares, loves, looks you in the eye and smiles.

And so I want to write.

Since coming to Spain I have met so many really beautiful people from all over the world. They have changed my perspectives and given me a second chance. This experience is very exciting for me. I wish to use this blog to center my thoughts, record them forever and share them with you.

Your feedback is very very welcome as it is the most important part of communication and communication might just be one of the most important things in the world. Community. You and I. We need each other.

Love, your fellow traveler and guest on earth,

Ross