please be honest, mary jane

awkward is real.

um, ive been thinking about writing. i dont want to be an english major. id puke on myself. but uh...people like my entries about spain, anyway, and all i know im going to do is travel. so maybe its just a good fit. i think my favourite things i wrote about spain though are in emails and letters. about nuns and my balcony and palm trees and stuff. but one of my favourites i wrote to alex brizicky. in a long email in a series of beautiful writing. i shall post some for banner to make love to, matt to enjoy, and everyone else to read or skim and not really care about or have a flaming desire to pick up and move.
aqui:

...

we´d live together. live. only live.

im in a third phase of barcelona discovery. my first was a party
phase. my second has been a beach and walking around at night phase
(but my tomato tits are begging for a break) and the third, the
third...tomorrow Im going to sit with a beggar. i dont know what ill
do or say. maybe nothing. tomorrow i will find artists. and ask to see
their favourite work. tomorrow i will walk the gothic streets silently
and smell the soil beneath me in the sewer and listen to the jangling
of my new egyptian hair mabob. I dont know. tomorrow I want to learn
what it means to be spanish. i want to meet a spaniard. I want to
sleep on mount tibidabo. I want to soak up the earth. ive been pouring
sand on myself lately. ive been walking more slowly. stopping. looking
into peoples eyes as they pass. and feeling the same.

and we can paint each other.

with only colours.

i love colours.

i love azul. and canary yellow. and fuschia. and teal. and royal
violet. and the sky. i love the sky. I love the wind. I love melting
into light. I love the pigeons. They bob their heads. they walk
around. they dont care that im watching. But i always notice when
someone is watching. And they dont say hello. and neither do i. im too
shy to even ask for the time.

spain is wonderful. everyone is living. walking the streets. eating.
sleeping. talking. actions. not just getting there. (where are we
going?)

it surprises me always. i go on the roof. i find a gypsy fiesta in the
street. i take off my top. an old woman in a doorway smiles at me. i
find architecture that seems like im in a fairy tale.

Picasso.

is he angry? does he hate us? he has humor. but is it dark? he has
love. but does it mock us? dali tells us. we arent real. gaudi tells
us "to be original one must go back to the origin" I feel like spain
is trying desperately to say something and hide it at the same itme.
from the plane, spain looks brown except for patches of
red-tiled-roofed cities and forest green mountains. i feel like spain
has a dark secret hidden between the stones in all the church walls. i
feel like the sky knows. and the people are alive. and their hearts are
beating. and they dance the flamanco with a fury. what are they
furious with? but they walk slowly. they eat slowly. the stores close
from 2-4. they eat gespacho, cold tomato soup. they meet and have
tapas at 1030 at night. they are awake in the night. their glowing
skin must mean something. i cant put my finger on it. but all the art
has a sadness. don quixote deserves pity. opera is tragic. and their
country is brown. but alive. what does that mean?

i love it. i cant believe im leaving.




right. so needless to say im dying to discover again.
to be awkward again
to feel new again

ps. i really am in love with the sky. i could write books about it. i might.