Rebecca Solnit, The Far Away Nearby
Spot on.
Spanish light encourages fiction.
A sunset in Madrid can burnish the most ordinary urban things with intrigue and push the city to reality’s teetery edge. Every treetop, every tee-shirt sleeve, every smile and milk-white wrist is bathed in chamomile light. Here, it isn’t enough that things be lovely – they must also be gold.
Even alone in Madrid streets, as I am in the picture above, they always felt very full to me. One can walk with many lives and many fictions. I would wonder sometimes if they were inventions of my own, or if a city with so much history necessarily brims with the spirits of denizens past and spillover is to be expected. There, history and story meet for cocktails on the terraza. They do not argue over who is real and who is not. The city gives them space enough and light by which to coexist.
Newcomers to Berlin and those who’ve never lived here are very curious about what happens here in winter. Is the cold unbearable? They ask. Do I need a heavier coat? How much snow will we actually get? When I’ve finished shuddering, I tell them that cold and snow are irrelevant. There is always another layer, a higher pair of boots, a thicker scarf or a mug of glühwein. In Madrid, the quality of light will captivate you. In Berlin, it will capture you and push you down.
Berlin light is pure nonfiction. It shows things not as they might be, but mercilessly as they are. Winter here is hard, above all, because of the extent to which that white light discourages fantasy. Every wrinkle, every blemish, any sign of a sleepless night; any heartache, any failure or misplaced hope – they are all laid bare by the scant hours that the sun turns the city a lighter shade of gray. Berlin winter light pins the powdery wings of imagination to the wall. There will be no flights of fancy here. Not for a while.
It’s only October, but I can already feel the fiction draining away. I wrap myself in sweaters and make a cup of tea. There’s nothing to do now but brace for the season to come and the truths that summer and dreams of Madrid kept at bay.
Let me tell you about this knife.
I emerged rather dazed from the cavern of live-in loverdom last June. The move took only two trips in a compact European car, and after I’d gentled the door shut behind the friend who’d helped me, I took stock of what I actually owned. The only furniture I had to my name, a desk and a chair, would come later. For now, all my things fit in the hallway in big brown boxes. Books, a sunlight simulating lamp that is my best friend from November to May, clothing, not as many shoes as one might expect, and kitchen implements. Boxes and boxes of kitchen implements. In fact, I had more kitchen implements than nearly anything else.
I’d be omitting a very important part of this experience if I didn’t say that this fact made me proud.
As we grow, our parents teach us what to value, sometimes explicitly, sometimes non. I credit my father for nurturing in me an appreciation of good tools. My memories of him swirl mostly back to quiet-voiced didactics: this is how you fit a dovetail; this is how to make a roux; this is how you build a terrarium shaped like a rocket out of scrap window screen and tin can, and in which you may then trap toads and creepy bugs. The point I’m making is this: my father is a jack of many trades and can make or fix almost anything, a good skill to have baked into a household that features a fast-moving, hapless teen who’s not yet worked out what her limbs do. I broke a lot of stuff in my adolescent years, so for my dad, there were many trips to the garage to locate the right tool for the job.
If you want a good tool to last, you must treat it with respect. This is also something I learned from my father. I can see him now at the counter or sitting at the kitchen table in his overalls, reading glasses perched on nose. I recall quite distinctly the metallic swirling sound of him sharpening our kitchen knives on the whetstone. He taught me about caring for knives, and he taught me knife skills, too.
“A good tool,” he said over a giant bowl into which we were both segmenting citrus, “is a wonderful thing.”
He’d just demonstrated how to undress an orange in this precise, fruit-salad-ready way and even I was surprised by my own competence. I nodded in agreement with him: a good tool is a wonderful thing, I thought, and I’ve set about collecting wonderful things ever since.
I purchased the wood-handled beauty up top at a market a few neighborhoods away. I was wandering on a Saturday, out for nothing in particular but looking and strolling. This knife’s unusual curvature and darkly gleaming steel winked at me from the table. “Take me home,” it whispered. And so I did.
If you come to my apartment and I allow you to use this knife, you know that I really, really like you. Not only do I like you, I trust that you have enough common sense not to accidentally hack yourself into bits. I keep this baby sharp, I keep it oiled, and I treat it the way my dad would want me to: right. In return, it is a dream to hold and use. it demolishes onions. It ribbons red peppers. It sweeps through watermelon like a playground swing through autumn air.
Would it be abuse, I wondered recently, to peel a pumpkin with it?
At first with trepidation and then with unabashed joy, I dove into the task blade first. I angled and jiggled and managed to denude a large portion of squash while sacrificing a very small amount of its flesh. Halfway in, though, I realized just how not easy the going was. This exercise demanded a shocking quantity of unladylike grunting and determined two-handed downward thrusts. It was during one of these that I stopped to really consider what I was doing.
Up until about a year ago, chopping a wooden-skinned squash was not something I could do, no matter how sharp the knife. In truth, I wouldn’t even have been able to get said squash home. Two years ago, I could not tug the bedcovers to my chin, and I became a proud member of the No-Trousers-Ever Club not as an act of revolt, but because I was unable to pull up pants. Three herniated discs and the staticky, always-on hum of chronic pain would’ve prevented that. But not today.
Butchering that pumpkin was fun because I got to gleefully hack away at a vegetable like a zombie-savage, but it was more than that, too. I could – and that means the world.
Though my body and I have always maintained an uneasy truce, I’ve grown to understand its beauty. It may never be willowy or lithe, or well suited to record-breaking race times. Its grace lies instead in resilience. It is strong. It is tough. It has done what only a few short years ago I believed impossible and, to a certain extent, healed. It’s recovered to a point at which it can lift groceries and meet friends with a rib-cracking embrace; it can stand for more than ten minutes and pull up skinny jeans over miles of leg. It is beautiful in its ability to execute the right task with the right force – and its own sort of style. Though it has betrayed me (more than once, in fact), this mortal husk is a good tool for which I’m learning to care with compassion and with pride.
I am grateful for strong steel and straight spines. If ever I have them, I will teach my own young that a good tool is a wonderful thing.
P.S. Happy Birthday, Dad.
This is the best shit on the planet.
From:
VII.12.18-20 (the Lupinare); 2192: Sollemnes, you screw well!
to:
VIII.2 (in the basilica); 1820: Chie, I hope your hemorrhoids rub together so much that they hurt worse than when they every have before!
to:
VIII.2 (in the basilica); 1926: Epaphra is not good at ball games.
to:
VIII.2 (in the basilica); 1882: The one who buggers a fire burns his penis
The best man is the groom
Last time I went to Rome it was because I’d fallen out of love.
I booked a flight, packed my suitcase, and fled to the sun, sanctuary, and leagues upon leagues of crisp-bottomed, basil-festooned pizza that Italy had to offer.
A year later, seated once more on a marble bench in Piazza Navona, it struck me that Rome and I were meeting again because someone else, someone for whom I care deeply, had fallen in love.
It was 2009 when I met Marco. We were flat mates, but he quickly became much more. In what I remember as only a matter of days, we moved from strangers, to acquaintances, to co-conspirators. And then, over the months in which we shared a home, Marco filled a hollow in my life I’d never admitted, even to myself, had been empty. Little Caitlin – chubby, taunted Caitlin, shy Caitlin, sensitive and empathetic, girly, gullible, cuddly Caitlin – had always wished for a big brother. I was raised independent and strong, to never express needs, to shun hiding behind the shield of anyone else’s resources or arms. And so, to have a pillar, a protector, was never a desire I announced. In truth, I was embarrassed. But Marco never even inquired after vacancies. He just walked into my life and stepped into the role as if it had been made for him.
We got close over dinners at the piso, post-work beers on a local terraza, long, searching conversations on our balcony about the nature of love and family, how time changes priorities, what we’re meant to do and be as we grow older and whose job it is to show us. One night at San Agustín 14 in particular stands out in my memory. It was early morning, and we had not yet been to sleep. We’d been out drinking and come in quietly to crack another bottle of red and creep out to the balcony. Marco was having a particularly existential evening. He was still wearing his work clothes, dress shirt and tie crookedly loosened around his neck. He was leaning on the iron rail and smoking intently, I beside him, a mostly empty wine glass dangling from my fingers. He took a long, thoughtful drag off his cigarette and exhaled slowly. When he finished, he turned to look me in the eye.
"You know, I would kill a man for you," he said.
Coming from a tough Italian with a job so secret he couldn’t tell me about most of what he did, this was a very mafia declaration. Under other circumstances I might have laughed, but in that moment, it wasn’t funny at all. I’m sure we both knew it was unlikely Marco would ever need to kill someone on my behalf – my life, after all, is nowhere near that tempestuous. But I also knew that the force of sentiment behind what he’d said was absolutely sincere. And it completely flummoxed me.
Just as I was raised to be a solitary warrior, I grew never expecting anyone to be there for me but myself. That night, leaning out on the balcony, quiet hubbub from Calle Huertas echoing up from the cobblestones, I found I had no questions about what he’d just pledged. I believed, for the first time, that when things get hard and I get tired of fighting on my own, I’ve got reinforcements. No matter what.
I was surprisingly nervous at his pre-wedding drinks on Saturday. I’d come to Rome alone and dateless and I wasn’t sure I’d know anyone at the bar. By the time I arrived, late from having wandered the streets, lost, for a good 45 minutes, the bar was already packed. Still, it wasn’t hard to pick Marco out. From the second I spotted him, I was already beaming. I pushed through people and tapped him on the shoulder, giddy with excitement. When he turned, his face split into a giant grin. “Ohhhh, Caitlin!” he crowed and embraced me, whisking me around to countless family members and producing, as if by magic, a glass of prosecco and pressing it into my hand. He had dozens of questions about my life, and I reported as best I could on the year since I’d seen him: a heartache, a job switch, a new apartment. As I spoke he nodded, smiling nostalgically. He was probably remembering the Caitlin he’d lived with in Madrid four years before, and nothing between us had changed since then. And then, there it was: I was suffused with a feeling I hadn’t had in a very, very long time. Belonging.
My eternal struggle is to take up space. For this reason I was, for most of my adolescence and early twenties, most comfortable on my own. It wasn’t that I was a loner or that I didn’t like other people, but I was always afraid of being in the way or of outstaying my welcome. It was living with the Italians, one of whom was Marco, that first gusted away that cloud of worry, and every time I’m with him, the clouds fall back a little more.
I keep close to my heart another memory of our time at San Agustín. It is late autumn, before midnight, but after dinner. I am sprawled on the navy futon that is my wonted spot. Francesco is lying on the white couch, a knee slung over its low back. Marco is across the coffee table from me on the love seat, the French doors to the two small balconies opening into the room just behind him. We each cradle books: Marco, something on middle eastern politics. Francesco has a language manual. I am dozily perusing the second volume of El Quijote when I realize that we have been lying here for hours. None of us has spoken, but none of us has had to. There is a communal energy in the room, an uncomplicated animal warmth and nearness I have witnessed only in nature documentaries featuring dozing, grooming lion packs. I notice with some surprise that I have not thought once in the hours between finishing the dinner dishes and stretching out on the couch about whether or not it’s okay that I stay. I rest my book on my chest and look at the boys, realizing Francesco has fallen asleep. Marco is still reading, an intense look on his face. My heart brims for reasons I don’t even understand and I hope he does not catch me smiling. This is the first time I feel it: I belong. And every time I get to see Marco – all too infrequently nowadays – that feeling’s renewed. Wherever he is, I trust I am welcome, too.
When Marco moved to London for a job transfer that spring, it was hard. I brought him to the airport, both of us laughing and joking like it was a normal day and studiedly avoiding the inevitable. We ordered bocadillos at the Barajas cafeteria, and I chewed mechanically, feeling more wretched with each swallow. Finishing lunch would only take me closer to saying goodbye. I still recall the queer flash of hatred I felt toward that sandwich. As a person who loves to eat, I’ve never forgotten that it was the one time I’ve been angry at my food.
I cried when Marco went through security, wrapping my arms around myself and heaving with a force I feared would alarm the people around me. Truth be told, I was crying well before he left.
"Hey, we’ll see each other again," he cajoled, laughing a little in disbelief at how emotional I’d gotten. "You’ll come visit me in London, and I’ll be back in Madrid sometimes."
At this point in my life, I was less than even mediocre at articulating my emotions. It’s been four years since then, but even now – when it comes to these feelings, to this much love, my words fail. Sunday night, watching Marco and his love exchange rings, I teared up once more out of pride of and affection for my friend. Much later and drunk on negronis, I pulled Marco off to the side of the dance floor. He was still out of breath from dervishing around like a madman to the balkan music pumping from the speakers. My throat and my heart were full of all of the thanks I needed to give, all the pride I wanted to express, all the love I yearned to explain. All that ended up coming out was “You are the brother I never had but always wanted. I am so proud to know you.”
I forget that as slick as he can be, Marco is surprisingly easy to embarrass. He chuckled humbly and hugged me again, apologizing for his damp shirt. There was a significant arm clasp, a smile. He nodded and went back to the middle of the circle. My heart nearly burst with happiness when he and his new wife clasped hands and danced.
I wanted to tell Marco more things, things like, “You are one of the best men I’ve ever known,” and “You are the first male I ever trusted.” Perhaps most significantly, I would have said, “You mean the world to me because you taught me that I am not alone, and that I am enough.” But there was dancing to do, drinks to spill, and I still do not know how to enunciate so much gratitude and so much love. I like to think that Marco knew anyway, without ever asking – just like he’s known everything else.
Opinion:
Before she dies, every woman should have a bright and gallant Englishman in a snappy suit tell her pretty things for 24 hours straight.
(via booksandpublishing)
‘’Masters of the slow indie build’’ The Times
The Bronze Medal are a 5 piece from Bristol who describe themselves as ‘loud folk enthused rock band without a lot of drones and emphasis on vocal harmonies’.
Consistent warm guitar textures and sounds also contribute to their signature ‘slow indie build’.
Last year’s singles ‘Milk / After You Were Quiet’ and ‘No Hospitals’ garnered attention from the likes of The Times, Fly, SNIPE as well as seeing the band being invited to play the BBC Introducing stage at the Reading Festival. 2011 also saw the band sell out shows in Bristol, Bath, Brighton and London. Powerful, uplifting and tender, The Bronze Medal are a band not to miss.