~Sound (Affects)~

Airports. Microscopic blinks. Brief, concentrated glimpses of this macroscopic world, and all those inhabiting it. I have always found them to be fascinating on so many levels. From fashion to finances, being a spectator as the spectrum of humanity colors my scope of sight, is such an eye-opening experience.

In fashion-forward Europe, where couture is king, it is not surprising that I would gravitate first to clothing commentary. Today, some people dressed for style (from 8 inch high stiletto heels and skinny jeans, to thigh high boots and barely-there mini skirts; fashion is always a factor here in Barcelona). Other people (such as myself) dressed more for *coughs* ...."comfort." (Yes, I assure you, I strategically planned this outfit--fully aware that I am in the mecca of mod). These jeans, sneakers and tee shirt are going to serve me well, and allow me the luxury of breathing, thank you very much...(and yes, they also just may announce to the entire European airport: "American tourist! American tourist!" )

Closing the fashion file, I make my way up the terminal stairs, surveying the crowd en route. Those who seem in a hurry (or perhaps just were inspired by a secret, undying affection for aerobic idol Richard Simmons and his sweatin' to the Oldies self) took the steps. Those who opted for the escalator, I noted, could be grouped into two major categories:

1) Those who were in a hurry, yet too lazy to take matters completely into their own hands (or feet?) and actually climb...they rather more were half-a**ing is, while hemming and hawing at the second group...

2) Yes, group number two...those poor, innocent bystanders who alighted the escalator fully secure in (and resolved to maintain) their stationary states. The longer I watched this parody of Truman-show transit, I realized that there actually kind of was a non-verbal (yet understood) "protocol" to this processional. Basically, if you weren't going to move your rump, you had better GET RIGHT!

Once I recognized this pattern, I decided to post myself off to the side and "Charles Darwin" it for a bit. For a good twenty minutes (seriously), I entertained myself with the emotional outbursts of "inconvenienced" travelers as the rump-resters refused to stay right, or * heaven forbid * absent-mindedly allowed any portion of their person to remotely venture into the left-hand lane. *Hem!**Haw!**Hurrumph!**Wheeze!**WAIL!** (and, yes, there actually was at least one distinct and gutteral wail). Sound effects make everything better, do they not? ;)

Finally tearing myself away from this asthmatic display of ire, I headed to find something to drink. As I was standing in line at the airport cafe, I noticed a striking difference in how much people were spending. I saw parents buying children 10 Euro grilled cheese sandwiches that would most definitely remain half-eaten (or find their way, in short order, to their final resting places on the sticky terminal floor). Others (like myself) were notably (not necessarily by choice, mind you!) more "frugal" with their funds. As I got to the cashier and reached into my purse, raising, with trembling fingers, the whopping 5.95 Euros to meet her open fist...I willed myself to NOT calculate exactly how much that worked out to be in American dollars. Sheesh....She smiled with me (okay, maybe she was actually more like laughing AT me)...but she "got it." As in, she knew exactly that I was thinking: "This better be some DAMN GOOD Arizona Green Tea!"

And here I sit, waiting for my plane to board...and sipping my 6 Euro Arizona Green Tea. I am present...soaking it all in...surrounded by style, spendthrifts, and yes, sound effects~

Funk-y~

I woke up this morning and was met with warmth and sunshine. I knew today was the day for my Parc Guell. I dressed with trembling excitement…fingers fumbling over zippers, buttons and laces; distracted by what laid ahead. Then…realization—I am alone. This beautiful, blissful experience…el solo~

I slumped back down on my bed and contemplated (not gonna lie….for at LEAST 5 good minutes) burrowing back under the covers in an Eeyore-esque pile of goo. Can we say funk?

I glanced over at my bag—my trusty little camera peeking out at me. I saw her eyeing me, judging me, taunting me in her cheery little chirp: “Pile of Funk!” “Pile of Funk!”…

I giggled despite myself (fully intending to wallow in my loneliness and “woe is me” mentality, thank you very much…) and dragged my arse across the room to pick her up gently. She hummed to life and began a delightful dance through the days of my past, stepping gracefully to the trilling tunes stored in her memory—the waters of home, baking/barista beauties, lions in winter, communal cups of coffee, bonfires with brothers, swimming with sisters, best friend beauticians, sunrises with mothers at Kahana Bay, English nerds, Club dancing divas, Contra comrades, bands of bikers, and Hawaiian hippies. Tears of remembrance and fullness stung my eyes.

I gingerly placed you all in the palm of my hand…grateful fingers stretching to receive the full beauty and breath of you. I curled my tiny fist around you tightly…and held on.

We go~

And to the loneliness and “el solo” mentality?..........

“ Funk That”~

Spanish Rainbows~

Spanish Rainbows * I Thank You *

-The old, weathered men who meet for their daily domino tournament…thank you fellowship~

-My favorite of the domino contenders…smoking his cigar like clockwork from 10 til 2…thank you consistency~

-The vendor at the market with the shy smile; everyday she anticipates my visit and has my favorite yogurt and cheeses ready and wrapped in special paper…most days there is a surprise something sweet she has slipped in from her oven at home….thank you generosity~

-The children in the park, gleefully terrorizing the pigeons on Place Catalunya; their shrieks of sheer delight as they chase and scare the bejesus out of the birds…thank you explosive exuberance~

-The gnarled, wrinkled woman who emerges from the water, and nonchalantly mounts her bike and continues to pedal proud as a peacock down the crowded boardwalk: naked as the day she was born…thank you self-confidence~

-The metropolitan tenants with their rooftop gardens, planting and cultivating life—bringing nature and all the beauty it beckons, into the city…thank you growth~

-The young man from the Metro, giving his seat to the young mother whose arms * not to mention her mind * were filled to overflowing, and heavy…thank you recognition~

-The American tourist who offers a hefty sum to the haggard, street beggar on La Ramblas, no questions asked…thank you compassion~

-The trusty Mac computer, providing the link to home, and all the love that was left there…thank you connection~

-The camera Lam blessed me with, snatching snippets of time—so that I may share these beautiful moments to those who cannot see what I see…thank you thoughtfulness~

-The cheery yellow bike that ferries me along my journeys—sharing miles and miles of memories…thank you freedom and flight~

-James, a Godsend, satisfying my starving soul with friendship and grace…thank you companionship~

-The hundreds of prayers, comments and emails offered daily…continuous reminders that I am truly not alone, and that “you go with me”…thank you encouragement~

-The amazing adventure and opportunity that is this journey—the seeking of perspective, awareness, growth, and light…thank you experience~

-The breath I awaken with, that carries me throughout the day…thank you life~

Cerrado~

Metro man

Furrowed, brow

Furtive, forward-focused eyes

Arms crossed

Legs together

Jaw clenched

Muscles taut

Tight, pinched lips *I can only imagine your bum cheeks are in the same strict state… *

Shoulders slightly slumped

Metro man…your body shrinks from me…its language telling of a concave creature, whose stature screams "CERRADO!"

Metro man, you are like a shop whose lights are turned off, yet the shopkeeper remains behind, smoking his pipe in front of the glass windows….fully aware that the dim glow beckons to passersby, teasing and taunting.

I wonder if you know how much they want to come and sit awhile with you…how they ache to hear your stories…to have the rich, velvet aroma of your stogie saturate their senses, sweeping them up in fellowship.

One of these days, Metro Man, I will get to you. When you are tired and weary. When your guard is down. I will catch your eye. I will cause your gaze to stray, and I will smile. I will smile unabashedly, and you will at first be embarrassed by my childishness---my inappropriate and brash behavior. Then you will realize you are too exhausted for embarrassment. Your day will have so beaten and bruised you, seeming to rob you of all joy…it is THIS day you will have left only the energy for embrace.

Blessings be, Metro Man. I await with joyful expectation, that day…when I can share smiles, or perhaps just sit and smoke with you~

Anonymity and Acquaintance~

In a matter of 48 hours, I have uprooted myself from a small, sleepy community on an island in the middle of the Pacific, only to now find myself dropped amid a bustling, Metropolitan mega-city. To label this transition as “jarring” would be an understatement of epic proportions. For the last two days I have been immersed within thoughts regarding contrasting environments. I am still sorting through my many wandering notions, but if you don’t mind, I will share a few (with such hope and prayers that you will be challenged in your own thoughts, as well as add to these with you own ruminations).

I am convinced (without a doubt) that ingrained deep within the very essence of my being, I am a wide-open spaces seeking / country living / blue sky loving/ fresh water swimming/ mountain climbing kind of a girl. It is a common joke among my close friends that (if left to my own devices and inclinations) I would be happy as a clam living far, far away from most civilization (in fact, I actually do… J). They know I am, indeed, simply a “Hobbit at heart.” My great friend Lam often calls me on the telephone, insisting that I: “Emerge from the Hobbit hole (our loving term of endearment for my apartment) pronto!” So, yes, I do like my peace, quiet and serenity. I also know that I prefer to live my daily life operating on a smaller scale, and at a slower pace. Knowing this about myself, and finding myself here and now (in an environment in all points counter to that inclination) is quite the experience for this self-professed “country girl.” “Why am I so?” I have been exploring now…”Why do I SAY I am such…and what is it that big, bad Barcelona (or large cities in general) symbolize to me (at least from my perspective?) Maybe some of you have wondered the same thing(s)…

I am sitting here in a café, writing. It is a busy, buzzing beehive of sound and movement. The energy is intense, yet not overwhelmingly so, nor unpleasant by any means…just “charged,” if you will—like a renewable battery that you somehow know will just never run down. I find it odd, in light of this buzz, that I get the most work done in coffee shops and cafes, at least here in Europe. Perhaps it is because no one “bothers” me. I do not speak the language. I am foreign—unfamiliar, and an unknown variable in the regular patrons’ habitual routines.

My morning run produced a similar situation, awareness, and feeling within me. I left my flat and jogged through a particularly crowded industrial section of La Gran Via. Besides the few honked horns and animated air-kisses offered up with enthusiasm and gusto (have I mentioned yet that Spanish men are quite the charming lot?), I glided through the city streets in a state of surreal solitude. Once I reached the seashore and continued along the boardwalk, not much changed. Only a few smiles were obtained from passersby and fellow runners—each of which were greedily gobbled up by this starving Southern-bred “sweetness” and cordiality loving soul. I find this situation…anonymity (or what you want to call it)…not to be good or bad necessarily, in and of itself. It simply is what it “is.”

Anonymity is actually what I am loving about Barcelona most thus far. The fact that I can take a run, or venture out to a coffeeshop and literally be “bothered” by no one, I must admit, seems an almost sinfully selfish, although decadent and delicious, luxury some days. A sense of inexplicable freedom fills me when I think of this…a lightness of being of sorts. “Why?” I have asked myself. The best answer I can surmise is summed up in three simple words: UNFETTERED BY ACQUAINTANCE.

I will try and describe this feeling more clearly: An “acquaintance,” to me, signifies those relationships in my life that have no depth. They are new, or in the beginning stages. Or perhaps (sadly) they may even be quite old, yet remain immature and stunted in their growth. These “acquaintances” are the relational bonds that I sense will require much energy and exhaustive effort to “get there” in desired intimacy depth (if that goal is even possible at all…it is so rare to find that level of “knowing” and “share”). So, to me, Barcelona (or any place that offers me this “freedom from acquaintance”) is giving me such an amazing gift—the elimination/ cutting of those (loose and surface) “ties that bind.” (And so severely and bluntly doing so). I sense that it should hurt, yet feel only extreme relief and refreshment~

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This was just a small smattering of my thoughts so far on what I am experiencing within myself here…what this new transition and life season is all bringing to mind. I am aware this post is dangerously teetering on the edge of becoming entirely too long and tedious, so I will wrap up for now—leaving you with open-ended ideas and inklings (and hopefully a wide-open forum for dialogue!) on anonymity, acquaintance(s), and all things inhabiting among them~

Labels~

Labels. They share information. They indicate things—things like how much something costs (or better yet, how much we paid for it). Sometimes they provide the consumer with further instructions or directions as to how to proceed with the product to which the label is attached.

For instance, in a nutrition label…the 8 MILLION grams of caffeine in my serving of soda * may * suggest to me, ever so gently, that I might not need TWO of them…that is, if I ever want to see the back of my eyelids again. Similarly, the label placed on the pack of cigarettes purchased at the corner market serves as a disclaimer, warning those that may not be aware, that there are health risks involved in the usage of the product they are about to buy. Clothing labels are particularly intriguing to me, I must admit. Designer jeans and outfits apparently have labels whose value (yes, those teeny, tiny, few small square inches of fabric) apparently surpass the monetary worth of the entire material mass to which they adhere. At least in America the BEAUTIFUL~

Labels posted on the back of ANYTHING purchased from Home Depot or Radio Shack (yes, and any of those other stores that sell products that * gasp * expect us to put something together) …I will pause a moment to allow a collective group shared moment—a celebration and awareness of the unity brought upon us as we think of how we all share that foreshadowed frustration when the label “Assembly Required” is read….* shared shudder *~

As well as products, I am realizing more and more how “labels” are also assigned to people. Sometimes the individuals attach themselves with a certain branding—sports stars crown themselves with glorious nicknames and monikers, announcing their awesomeness to all. Couples are known to the rest of the world as, “married” “divorced” “engaged” “courting” “separated” “dating” “talking” “texting,” or “INSERT OTHER CREATIVE DESCRIPTION OF ATTRACTION HERE_______.” * Oh, the drama—the angst!…and yes, such a large spectrum to measure the sliding scale(s) of togetherness *~

We have labels indicating (or so it may seem) who we are…and by this, I mean, our professions…doctors, lawyers, policemen, teachers, mothers. Our preference of partners also assigns us a tag—gay, homosexual, heterosexual, bi-sexual * and for one particular season of my life, I vaguely recall believing that ASEXUAL should be among these as well…) yeah…some of you know what I’m talkin’ bout~

As I ponder the concept of labels...thinking of my own and those I see most closely surrounding me, I often ask if they are necessarily good or bad. Or does it depend on the context(s) or connotation(s) of the label(s)? I am unsure as of yet as to my exact answer, even…I am pondering. But I am intrigued nonetheless…and I do believe it is a question worthy of seeking answer(s).

Oh labels! How I am fascinated by all that you say…but more, even, perhaps by what you do not~

Haole Haiku~

Perched upon my bench,

Gazing longingly as cars pass by.

Thanks for the ride, ******s!

A strange family,

Trannies, bums, haoles, rastas,

Flank my side in turn~

A small, elfin child

in exultation, declares:

Mommy! I smell pee!

Lovely shades of blue

best describe colored faces

nostrils flare and fuss~

Gasping and giggling,

intermittently curses rise

blue faces now green~

The mommy "shushes"

stifling her own tickled grin

all eyes glaze over~

Laughter on my lips

thinking of my present life

praise be randomness~

Tickets should be sold,

displaying all da kine,

this traveling carnivale~

This rolling riot,

always a new adventure,

aloha the bus!

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Also, I returned home to read this in the paper....coincidence? (I think not!)

*I especially like the part reading that breaks it down for us (and I quote) "It doesn't matter if it's body odor or offensive fumes that emanates from clothes, personal belongings or animals"*

???

http://www.examiner.com/a-2196678~Honolulu_seeking_to_ban__BO__on_buses.html?cid=rss-Hawaii_Headlines