Monday, May 11, 2009
les glories: where dreams are born and cats are killed
Sometimes when I'm walking around my neighborhood I think things like this:
"wow this place is so urban, look at the graffiti"
"wow this place is so ghetto, look at that hole in the ground where a house once was"
"wow this place is so shit, I want new shoes"
When I am in bed I have dreams. Lots of people do. In Les Glories my dreams are not like other peoples. A few weeks ago I dreamt that me and Dan Patel had a facebook friend in common. That was the whole dream. No beginning, middle or end. Just a piece of information. "Charlie, you and Dan Patel are both friends with Rob Ashby", I woke up and we weren't. Another dream? That I went to a farmers market and bought two separate leaves of iceberg lettuce. They were washed in water, weighed in front of me, individually wrapped, and finally I paid for them. My first thought upon waking up? I should've had those leaves weighed before they were washed, I paid for water as well. Currently this is my life.
If I want to catch the metro, I have to take a longer route because various constructions are blocking various paths. It's not that bad. I go left from my house and walk a bit, then up a passage to street level, cross a road, and I am at the metro. If I am "rolling deep" in the black hours, I get to walk past homeless people asleep in a crevice under the road. Two nights ago, I spotted one of them attempting a crossword. I wanted to help, maybe there was a piece of film trivia or something to do with Liverpool FC I could supply the answer to. I think I would have just about been able to spark up a conversation in Spanish. What I wouldn't have been able to handle is if this homeless man grew attached to me, or even more likely, offered a spot of fellatio in return for some euro. So I left it at a glance.
If I want to eat, (generally a good idea for most of us), I have to go to the supermarket.
No surprises there. The first time I went to the supermarket, I wanted to take everything in, digest my surroundings if you will. So I did.
What I found out is that I am living in Gypsy-Harlem. Peeking through holes in the walls, I saw warehouses filled with caravans. Like an indoor Dorset, or Butlins with a roof. One of the caravans looked quite homely from the outside, but on the whole the rest of them looked shit.
I am split down the middle with these folk. The kids are innocent, playing outside on the pavement, throwing basketballs into bins, generally enjoying life. Do they go to school? I don't know. Something tells me the Spanish government isn't overly concerned with this bunch. The adult types, are not quite so nice to look at. They have a look in their eyes that says something between "I've been on the Sainsbury's basic range for life" and "I've been raped, by my dad". It's not pretty. The women's breasts are always flopping about and not in a good way, I've been searching for a hint of attractiveness from one of them, but there is nothing. Like a small village, home only to the sisters of Medusa. Is that too harsh? No. The men look like they get paid to sweat, and that they haven't received one of their sweat checks for months. I really hate crossing eyes with these people, because I can't help but feel guilty for having freshly pressed apple juice in my bag.
When I am cooking the food I have bought from the supermarket, I do it in the kitchen. From the kitchen window I can see Sagrada Familia, it looks good.
Razzmatazz is around the corner from my house. It is my favourite club in the city. Firstly you can wear trainers. Secondly they get some dangerous DJ's. Sadly none of my friends like this club as much as me. I think it is because you have to pay ¢15 to get in, but you get a free drink. I think it is a good deal when Boys Noize is playing in ten days time, and MSTRKRFT the night after. Maybe I need some new friends. I definitely need to find someone who sells mdma. Its been a lengthy amount of time standing on the sidelines, and I don't want to feel like John O'Shea forever. I've had plenty of offers, but I'd like to actually know my dealer on a personal level, then buy drugs off him. Like a drug vendor interview process.
The elevator in my building is small. In my building the general themes seem to be old people and people with mental disabilities. Obviously saying "hola" to these people is not a big deal. They are old and disabled, that could be me one day.
A big deal is when a fatty gets in the lift. I wonder to myself just how old the elevator is, just how much three hundred kilos is, and most importantly, whether I would be able to position myself in free fall, to land on the fatty and still not get covered in their sweat.
Cats. A popular musical, most likely debuted on Broadway. The musical is about an animal of the same name. That animal is common in my neighborhood. Someone on our road puts out cat food every night, for the strays. A feline breadline. This is fine. I'd appreciate it if that person would leave a doner kebab outside my house occasionally, but I understand that's unlikely. So the cats, I don't touch them, I don't want rabies. But if the shit hit the fan, I'd much rather fight with a stray cat, than a stray homeless man. Rape by cat is so much less likely, than rape by homeless man with no teeth and a passion for crosswords. Recently we were on our way home in the early hours and one of these cats lay dead in the road. It's head was crushed and leaking blood. I woke up leaking sangria and crushing my head with my pillow. I really wanted to photograph this dead cat, I can't put my finger on why exactly, possibly because it was an unusual sight or perhaps I would want a wank later. Anyway when we went out the following day, it was gone. Gone. Just like Nikki. People always say blood stains, but does it? There was no blood on the road when we dropped by for the sequel, and I am fairly sure last time I "stained" a t shirt with blood it came out without any hassle.