s u m m e r
greetings from the hills of madrid
A paradise of dust and heat that doesn't dry so much as it arouses. No humidity. Patches of green here and there and small little European cars pass each other on the narrow mountain roads. Pastel colored cars with large patches of rust boring through in places. Rocker panels. Rear fenders behind the mini tires that kick up the occasional puddle in the occasional storm. Drivers that yell back and forth through roll tops while holding ripe tomatoes in one hand, eating, yelling, laughing, steering crazy.
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It's a place that has clouds, but they're far enough apart and distinct enough in shape to command attention of the whole of the sky. Where there might go a bowl of pasta. The leaf on the stem of a wild flower. Purple. Indeed.
Terra-cotta holds in the warmth of the day and at night you can lie on the roof with your thoughts and feel the heat in the clay rise through your thighs and lower back and the balls of your bare feet as you wait patiently on the stars and listen intently to the voices of the friends which surround you. We're all here. Three hands in hands. All present and accounted for.
Age doesn't matter in this place and the lungs are free and clear from years of smoke and chemicals used to make art. The art is here. All of it. Stacked in the rooms of the villa like the crazy collection of C. F. Kane.
All you need is here, going into town is merely for pleasure and is only a quick walk through furrows of ripe vegetables and one small orchard where ripe fruit grows over night and begs the mouth eat it.
Hemmingway is all around you. From bullfights to the necessary clean well lighted place. Fruit and wine. Scotch and water. Gin and Tonic. Filled in glasses that properly sweat and drip condensation on your hot neck and light cotton shirts. He'll speak of safari and war and will bring the musk of a boxer to your nostrils. Praising a Vodka Queen.
Finding you way home is easy. Simply think it. Cool sheets await the dark sackcloth night. A fine wood canopy bed, French doors thrown wide and the perfect breeze. All the dreams you thought you'd never have again flood your head with pleasantries while a cucumber mint candle burns slow by the bedside in a tarnished, hand-pounded, Roycroft holder.
Drift away with Sangria on the palette.
Greetings from the hills of Madrid.
goodnight 8.19.99