Iglesia de Santa María del Mar

Spanish Beauty

A Spanish highway sounds just like any other. Perhaps another motorocyle or two. But, it's the truckers in this country who know how to eat. If you see a man with dust on his boots, follow him to lunch. I did. Their they put snails in my soup, again. They call it arroz brut, and that it is. For the second time I endured it, and then I realized, remembered, reminisced: this is how tastes are acquired. Yes, I think I like Spain.

ni ton ni son

There was no intention to be absent, merely an intention to do many other things first. Here is a little moment to write. The rains have come, again. We were in Burgos, and in Bilbao, and in Barcelona in the last weeks, among pit-stops in Palma. These were our plans from the beginning.

Ernest Hemingway wrote, “In Spain you could not tell about anything.” We are living that life to a small degree, everyday. The woman in the bakery snapped at us when we asked to purchase one, just one, cookie. “No!” she scolded. You buy 100g worth, or you buy none at all. We bought none at all, and she was the richer for it.

Ni ton ni son. A little phrase that works itself into many situations. I even read it on the wall in the Picasso museum. It's meaning: without rhyme or reason. Once you understand this method, things lighten up considerably, here.

Here is a poem I like.

Of Mere Being

The palm at the edge of the mind,
Beyond the last thought, rises
In the bronze decor,

A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.

You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.

The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Wallace Stevens

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