Green, how I love you green! Every pale, revelatory spring I think of that line, from Romance Sonambulo by Lorca. Here's the first stanza:
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea
and the horse on the mountain.
With the shade around her waist
she dreams on her balcony,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
Green, how I want you green.
Under the gypsy moon,
all things are watching her
and she cannot see them.
Here's the rest. The version I grew up with translated 'quiero' to 'love' rather than 'want', but I suppose this is more contextually accurate.
But not this green. I HATE this green.
On an entirely unrelated topic: House Shows! I went to one last night, the first in a while. It reminded me how exhausting and great they are, and why I don't go too often.
West Philadelphia is full of great big Victorian houses that were once very grand and are now bursting with punks. Some have huge pyramidal stacks of empty 40s on the stained marble mantlepieces. Others are full of paintings and Christmas lights. Some are houseplant jungles, most have dogs and cats and giant bike piles near the door. They are usually warm and friendly and dilapidated and smell of weed and zealous vegan sweat.
Usually the shows are in the inevitably disgusting basement. I've found myself sitting on derelict washing machines, dancing in the slot between two filing cabinets, and trying not to knock over an extra bike pile. Usually the deliriously drunk and happy listeners are respectful of the house and appliances, though last night a particularly hammered young yob was punching the ceiling pipes for no particular reason and pulling the insulation off.
The bands can be anything from absolutely terrible- a duo whose broken amp produced earsplitting shrieks at random intervals but soldiered on for half an hour anyway comes to mind-- but they can also be great. You never know, and I've enjoyed shows from the third floor of the house because to descend was to stop hearing music and just be subjected to vibrations and pain from the overamped band in the basement.
But I like being clean and like my personal space and don't enjoy being sweated, spat or stepped on, so I hadn't gone in a while. But last night we went because a lovely friend lives in that particular house, and this guy called Erik Peterson was playing. And damed if it wasn't an absolutely cathartic experience to be crammed into a living room (moving up!) with dozens of overexcited teenagers hollering 'SEE YOU IN HELL, BOYS!'
'I'll be coming to recruit your rebel children!'
And yes, I felt a hundred years old, but it was nice to see that a bunch of suburban looking kids were just as into idealistic lefty punk as I was at their age (and still am in a corner of my cold and cynical little soul).
There was another band I like, called Blackbird Raum. It was hard to hear them though, because the crowd (now relegated back into the basement) thought that an acoustic folk punk set is an appropriate time to start moshing. I stood on an end table to peek over the crowd, and could barely see the band past the roiling mass of tipsy young heads. I didn't miss being younger, when I would have stayed farther up in the throng. I didn't miss being clipped in the ear with studded pleather boots. I didn't miss concentrating on the band with half my mind and avoiding sharp spikes and elbows with the other half.
But I missed enjoying these things, just a little bit.
It's better without the screaming kids.
And then I spent much of today dealing with taxes because I am a grownup.
Where else in this world will you be welcomed into a house and know that you'll recognize many of the faces, where you can sit in a colorful kitchen between sets, chatting away with new acquaintances, where you can pay seven bucks and hear three genuinely good bands? (The third was called Pale Robin).
Where else in this world will you be welcomed into a house and know that you'll recognize many of the faces, where you can sit in a colorful kitchen between sets, chatting away with new acquaintances, where you can pay seven bucks and hear three genuinely good bands? (The third was called Pale Robin).
Isis
No comments:
Post a Comment