It’s Christmas once again and I’d like to wish all of my dear readers dreams crushed in the wake of the bulk of progress, ever moving and obliterating every good thing in its path. Yes! Death! Families gather under the spotlight of commercialism and stragglers like myself are at times let into their midst. The grip of this season is unmistakable. It is icy in the north and it is sweltering in the south. It is precisely -3C where I am, actually.
The bed is cozy, however lonely. The room is stark except for my empty luggage, two coats and a rather silly formal shirt hanging from wooden hooks (I laughingly call them hooks) and a plastic bag tied, never revealing its contents, on the floor to my left.
The duvet is rumpled. I don’t feel as filthy as I think I should. Note: It has been ages since my skin did not crawl with probiotic fecal matter after awakening and prior to a shower. The Police are playing on Gulo, my trusty mobile phone which additionally sucks power from an outlet to my right. A flaccid lamp towers over him, glowing not.
I was fetched by Marisa and her two children yesterday at approximately noon and whisked through traffic in what she calls her Toyota (what this actually means remains a mystery to me). Above is a view through the bug speckled windscreen. She cursed the denizens puttering about in metal coffins (perhaps that is the definition of Toyota) with vigor until we were finally on the highway and flying at 120kph towards uncertain doom! Oh, I mean towards Fresneda - a village in the mountains in the provence of Burgos in Castille de León.
Now, Gulo is eructing an improvisition from the Trondheim set by Henry Cow. I’d love to blast this in the sala during mealtime. Fifteen or so people were gathered yesterday evening for the festivity of food, conversation, guffaws and lastly, poker. I went to bed before the poker game was in swing. Anyhow, these people would adore Henry Cow. I just know it. Somehow, my precise sense of intuition tells me so! Gurgle.
Initially, there were few people about. As anyone reading these words surely knows, I am more comfortable among small groups. And even in small groups, when they are throwing phrases in Spanish about relentlessly, I am utterly lost. One on one conversations in this language suit me best. Actually, one on one conversations in any language suit me best.
Here sits María, about to be engulfed by encroaching flames! Poor Maria! We will all miss her!
Arrrrrgggghhhhhhhhlllppmmmmmmmmmff! <— María.
I pause to clean the filth from my body.
The filth has been cleaned from my corporal being and I now sit in the sala of the otra casa and the fire is to my right. After consuming María yesterday, I sense that its hunger is weak and will not attempt to consume me. Fires of this sort are like serpents. It is sufficient to feed them only once a week, or at most every few days. I feel exceptionally safe. Paco, Anna Manuel and one of the youths whose name I forget sit to my left. They are in rapport. I have no clue concerning the subject of their phrases.
Marisa was sitting outside the house in the spot she always sits on a bench perpenticular to the entrance. She was smoking a cigarette when I opened the gate and strode across the lawn / driveway through the drizzle. Additionally, she was still in her pyjamas. I was the first to retire yesterday evening. The rest of the crew have been late to rise.
Two other groups arrived after we did yesterday. The second included two children (in contrast to youth), and an animal.
This particular animal is in a cage to my right about as far from the fire as I am, though perpendicular to the vector joining me and the fire. Since this animal is small and furry, I have a distinct hope that the flames lap the creature up as a snack. The tentacles can reach tentatively through the bars (I laughingly call them bars) of the cage, pretending deftly that they have a sense of smell. Once sensing the pliant flesh, proceed to transform into radiant sabres and impale the bunny, suck out its life from within and consume its flesh. All remaining is a husk of fur and charred skin. I gaze at the stupid and still living thing with hope that my vision comes true.
Marisa has provided me with myriad objects to feast upon just now. I have marmalade and crunchy toastie type thinghies. I have muffins, pate and cracker type thinghies. I have café con leche. I shall partake of the latter at this very instant.
I have been informed, additionally, that food will be ready durante de dos horas, so I should eat lightly. Heh! Eating lightly is not possible in this place. I wonder how often the people inhabiting this casa defecate every day. The amount of food they consume is practically unbelievable by the indigenous life on my home moon. My people would litterly burst from a type of fecal overload. I am sure my good reader can imagine clearly the patterns draped across the ceiling and walls of each room, dripping, after each explosion. The art of gluttony! Hooray! Gurgle.
Despite all of my grotesque imagry and sarcastic quips, I find myself happy these meandering days. Firstly, because of the fact that they are meandering. They stretch. Time has stretched again. This is only my perception, but, in the brain of a visón (o incluso eso de un humano), its reality is ultimate. Secondly, the people here, a huge and tightly knit family, accept me and are endlessly kind. Well, except for the youth who are a bit oblivious, as is normal with youth. I am fucking glad that I am not part of the all pervasive Venn Diagram that is youth. Fuck um. As I wrote a very short while ago, it is difficult to pick out the significance of their ultra-loud, crisscrossing conversations, but I am content. Perhaps I find it difficult to believe that a group of people - a bubble as it were, or better, a sphere - would let a deralict wanderer in their midst. Or perhaps I grew up with nothing at all like this, or if I did, I utterly rejected it.
Marisa is attempting to block the light capturing capabilities of Gulo’s camera with her gloved fists. Please, nobody tell her that I put a photo of her in the Martenblog.
Note to self: (Speaking of Gulo’s light capturing ability, these photos seem rather grainy in comparison to older entries. I’ll stop reducing the resolution so drastically in the future.)
As the night wore on and midnight passed, Paco and Alberto became interested in the animals I had been studying. I showed them videos of visones, ženety and kivinugisid and we discussed hunting. The pelts of Martes Martes were a very important financial resource for the mountain dwelling folk in the area surrounding Fresneda fifty, sixty and more years ago. Of course, now, it is illegal to trap and kill them.
And everyone loves that garduňas have adapted to urban environments.
This camaraderie heigtened my comfort in this environment even more. However, I was exceedingly tired by that point and proceeded to leave everyone’s company, but not before demonstrating my superior card shuffling skills after observing one of the youth’s ineptitude. Paco, at least, was very impressed.
I’ll leave you with an excellent nose.
