When I went to Cádiz, I had planned to do little else but lay on its beaches, swim, and eat good food. Yet, I still wanted to explore the area to see what else it had to offer, and it was on a walk to the park that I stumbled upon some of the city’s fine art exhibitions.
I was given this book shortly after its publication in 2013 by mi abuelito, Juan Antonio Masoliver Ródenas, whose work is featured in the anthology of short stories, memoirs and poems. Currently living in Spain, it felt like a good time to read the whole book. The collection showcases twelve contemporary writers, in both Spanish and English translation, and definitely has a modern, experimental feel to it. The use of first person throughout blends the line between truth and fiction, and despite often feeling personal, there is always a sense of the political throughout.
I’m not usually one for instrumental music, or music where I don’t understand the lyrics. Perhaps as a writer, I cling onto the words to evoke feeling. Perhaps this is also the reason why writing about music proved to be truly ineffable on a ‘Words and Music’ module I took at UEA, leaving me with a respectively low grade. I have been to operas and seen classical orchestras, willing myself not to be bored, trying not to fall asleep.
Often, I pretend to myself that I enjoy these things, or that at least it was “an experience”. I don’t like to reject a whole genre of music, so that is not my point here. I wouldn’t desecrate classical music as a whole, yet believe that we all have particular music tastes. For example, instrumental band 65daysofstatic are able to provoke emotions and excitement without the need for words, to me. Similarly, I was recently able to enjoy a performance of flamenco in Córdoba, and it happened both while instrumental, and without understanding the lyrics.
drank from lakes
that turned out to be droughts
cut our lids
to see the future
mined coal with safety pins.
‘It’s time for celebration, not gawking
at deaths crushed by credit,’ you say.
sick dentures pushing teeth back
rusty hammers made from origami cranes, pinkwashed. never grow
tired of going to the bank, where each need is a static noise
& a gunshot,
where you tell me,
‘you &I are beings in boats.
wasting the column. no column. no pronoun to speak.
rather the gusts than a wall
rather understanding than secular missionaries
rather the freedoms of you & me than glass ceilings
rather the prickled rose we will hold firmly than the diamond-sculpted cross
rather the blood &organs than shed skin
rather the body of blood & sinews than war-torn factories
this is stinking of sweet sorrow,
where dystopias are youth’s memoirs, &
where adulthoods are delayed because there is no
money & water.
& until this day, we are sat on swings
that you say will break from our weight.
Featured image via GlobalSocialTheory
by Hannah Rose
Tribute Acts is a bittersweet piece of autobio-theatre written and performed by Tess Seddon and Cheryl Gallacher from Theatrestate. Set against a space-age backdrop, Tess and Cheryl introduce their fathers via a pre-recorded video link. The dads look uncomfortable in their suits and ties. Their daughters are wearing spacesuits. The gulf between parent and child is obvious, and the unease is palpable.