One Sunday night of the end of October, 2000, I was driving my father's Renault 19 from Oviedo to Navia. I lived there for three months, while in Practical Training in a chemical plant, a cellulose paste factory. That day, I remember, this girl and I, what was her name, ah, yes, C. spent the evening in Oviedo. Went to the theatre, La Dama Duende, Calderon de la Barca, National Company of Classical Drama. I think I felt in love with Oviedo at that time. Alfonso Lara was there, in the role of comical, anti-hero. At the time, made an impression on me; he was on TV with La Casa de los Lios; he and Arturo Fernandez, and Lola Herrera, and Miriam Diaz Aroca, and the sexy Patricia Vico and, of course, Florinda Chico. She passed away last week: she was 84 and from Don Benito. A piece of heart and Spanish drama died again. No much more heart is left, you know?
I had this tape played all day long in the car, a compilation of classical rock pieces, Europe, Bon Jovi, Van Halen, Scorpions, Satriani. And Stairway to Heaven, Led Zeppelin. The driving through the dark, rainy, winding road and the voice of Robert Plant was all one. A horizon full of possibilities.
**
I had a couple of pints tonight after dinner in a pub fifty yards from the door of home. The pub where the fox hunters get together, yes. It gets quiet and quite familiar. Some folks go out to walk their dogs and end up in the bar, reading the papers and having a drink. Friendly-environment to the dogs. The bartender is kind of... funny. A young fellow, looks too nerd, but behaves just opposite to that. He grab the cord of the dog of this man, get it walking around the pub, and the animal was moping the carpet, licking and swallow little things... How about that!
Inside, you can buy two songs for 50 p's. I bought Stairway to heaven. Two hot girls got soft and slowly drunk while the boys with them got the same but noisily and while playing pool. I read Vargas Llosa. It is definitely an amazing novel, Conversacion en la Catedral. Amazing. The beer, Led Zeppelin and the meeting between father and son, the drama, the pain, the circumstances, the unforgivable secrets, the lies, the smiles and the wrinkles, all the human shit; above all, parches of human love, and I was about to cry. The novel is a human mystery, a moving narration, a hymn of humanity. Vargas Llosa should have received the Nobel Prize then (1969).
**
I worked today from 11 until 5.30 in my office, stopping for an hour to have a burger. The oil gets too hot, you know, and there is no money to buy a more suitable pump. The pressure drop estimations do not match the experimental data; the data is mad and unreliable.
After that, I intended to go to the British Museum and see the exhibition on something about Afghanistan; unfortunately, a tidal of humans was coming on the opposite direction as the museum was closing at 5.30. Pushing my way in, I asked a security guy at the entrance "what time are you closed today?". He, bluntly, retorted: "Now". I mean, what kind of an answer is that? Fuck you, men, fuck you very much. I can show you my membership card, perhaps you owe me a tiny part of your salary, I don't know, maybe. What kind of fucking answer is that?
That's the problem with free museums, you know. People think that knowledge will be spread, but all you get is vulgarity growing like mold on the damp tile of a forgotten bathtub.
**
The evening was unfriendly cold and the dim, lazy e-lights hardly pinned the dark of the settling dusk. I got myself in a library next to the museum, The London Review, I think. I bought two books, a collection of commented and notated Shakespeare's Sonnets, and The Rime of the Ancient Marine, by Coleridge. The latter is very thin, very cute Vintage edition. I like this small books. It is illustrated, not by Dore, though.
He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
for the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.
Is it not an exciting Sunday?... Oh, my God...
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