WAU + MAGNETIX

Eating mariscos in America

La guerra continua

"San Francisco Here We Come" or "La Guerra"

WAU en Puerto Rico

Rotterdam

I spent the weekend in Rotterdam for the Primitive festival, thus completing the month-long rock marathon. I think I overdid it these past few weeks, because I really had a hard time getting into the music. Too much of a good thing; too much of the same thing. Despite seeing bands I've seen fifty times before (even if it was really the first) and hearing the DJs play the same old records, I had a pretty good time, mainly because of the company. Lots of familiar faces from around Europe.
I brought a bunch of records with me to sell and sold quite a few of them. I turned around right away and spent the loot on a few carefully selected stacks of records from neighboring dealers' stands. All of it, to the tune of 140 eucks.
Unfortunately, my bag full of all those records, my bitchin' new (not cheap)sunglasses, and my PDA was stolen out of a friend's car. So I'm headed home to Amsterdam empty-handed, and with a bad taste in my mouth.
It could have been much worse, of course. At least I pulled my jacket and my keys out of there -- as if I knew that I was about to lose that bag -- so I'm not going to be on the street in my t-shirt, locked out of my house. But what a colossal drag that I never get to play those records.
Maybe it's a sign that it's time to focus on doing something entirely different for awhile. Until my old records start moving me again.

Midsommar Day

Drinking gin and juice in a can with Sean and some Fins in a Swedish graveyard

Stockholm

I'm sipping a 10 dollar Fernet (guess I should have asked the price), trying to figure out what the Swedes say instead of 'hello'. It's really cute, sounds something like "hey ho". Let's go...

I flew here from Sardinia. Sunny Sardinia. I just bought an umbrella. Doh...! But I can tell it's gonna be a good time. I got a week here. I'm going to attempt to stay on top of my writing here, and at the same time, digest the amazing two weeks I just passed in Sardinia by recalling it all and recording it here.

I should also reach back into the last few months and pull out the amazing moments and record them here. This winter and spring was probably the dreariest period of my life, but it wasn't all bad.

It would be good if I manage to write it all down...but if I don't, it probably means I'm having too much fun. Let's see what happens.

Waiting for the Cemetery

In the sleepy little town of Camigliano, Italy, which is the next town over from the one my mom grew up in, and the town in which her mother, and her mother's father grew up in, we took a walk with some relatives to the cemetery. On the streets all that could be heard was the sound of the warm breeze blowing between the buildings, birds singing in the distance, and the occasional car passing on a parallel street. It was so quiet that the sound of the rubber squeaking against the pavement could be heard as tires rotated to steer through the town's narrow passages.

We happened across a few people, none of them under fifty years of age. Each of them said something to us about the cemetery, without our asking.

"It's closed."

"It opens at 4 o'clock."

"Is the cemetery open?"

It was 3:15. As we walked towards the cemetery, I wondered to myself,

"Are we really going to go there and just wait forty five minutes for it to open?" Apparently so – after our leisurely, elderly stroll, we arrived at 3:30 and sat down. And I thought to myself,

"Waiting for the cemetery, just like my poor old grandma."

Every time you see her, the first thing and the last thing she says is that she wants to die – she's waiting for la morte.  And as we sat there waiting for the cemetery to open, I couldn't resist but to say sarcastically to the others,

"Aspettiamo il cimitero" – we're waiting for the cemetery.

In this old town of old people, I was struck by the irony. The people there are devout Catholics who live a very simple, very quiet life based around God and family, good food, and good wine. Hidden in the middle of Italy, far from international culture and institutions of higher education, I was struck by a feeling that all of these old folks living this simple, quiet life, seemed in a way to be waiting for the cemetery. And then Rosa said,

"It's important to pay respects to the dead," and as I nodded in agreeance, my mother commented, half-jokingly,

"Around here, there's more respect paid to the dead than to the living!" And here with the deteriorated family situation my grandmother lives in, it's an unfortunate truth. She'll only get the respect she deserves when she's in the cemetery. But she's also to blame for her sad fate – one of the main reasons she doesn't want to go to live with my mother in the USA, where she would receive the care a ninety year old woman needs and deserves, is because her death here in Italy is already arranged and paid for. Apparently there's no refund on the funeral, the coffin, and the place at the cemetery, and her well being after la morte is more important to her than being happy while she's alive.

We waited only five or ten minutes, when the gatekeeper of the cemetery, a young, slick guy in sunglasses arrived early to open up, and to my great relief, we're in by twenty till four. I was also relieved to see someone young in this town, who came early to fulfill his duty to open that gate so that he could sooner get on with the rest of his day. Right after opening the gate he hopped back on his scooter and sped off.

Belfast, Ireland

A couple of weeks ago I went to Belfast, Ireland. I stayed for two nights. I didn't really know anyone or any place, but it was a good trip. Strangely enough, I made a new friend the night before I was to leave, and she's from a town from near Belfast. She put me in contact with a few people, and sure enough there was a "music industry meetup," so I ended up having someone to meet after all. I spent most of my time there alone anyway, which was good. I climbed Cave Hill, and drank lots of Guinness. It really is better in Ireland...

Here's something I posted to facebook while I was there. Written in the pub with my phone on my second night over a third pint of Guinness:

I'm only ordering PINTS tonight... because last night, some Irish kids were making fun of me for ordering half-pints. I had had two or three full pints already and just wanted to slow down a bit, so it seemed totally normal to me to switch to half-pints...

But it just now occured to me, almost 24 hours later, that "half-pint" can also be an insult...! So I looked it up on good'ol wikipedia:

"half-pint" or "half pint": a small or short person. A person of insignificance.

I'll drink this last pint to experiencing the etymology of that little bit of slang first-hand.

But wow, I wonder if I ever heard the term used anywhere besides maybe in cartoons? in my head, I hear "half-pint" in a voice resembling that of Bugs Bunny's.

I think I'm going to start using it as an insult myself.

By the way, among these kids I was hanging out with was a gay couple. I chatted with these two guys for a better part of the night. One was very sweet, a bit meek. We're both having, er, troubles. Me, girl troubles, and he, boy troubles. The other kid was quite probably his new boy to be troubled by -- he had two broken hands and bruises on his face from the last time they'd been out drinking (pints) together.

Thirty five, still alive

Yup, I turned 35 a few days ago... and now it's time to start the next part of my life. It's is a significant age for me. For most, it's 30, but my 30th birthday didn't phase me in the slightest. That was largely because of a friend's advice, who told me when I worried to her -- in my late 20s -- about what I would do with the rest of my life, that she didn't plan on worrying about that until she was 35. So I've happily spent the last eight years or so since then doing what I've been doing, without worrying too much about the future. I'll worry about that when I'm 35, I told myself.

 

That's not to say that I'm worried now, or going to start worrying. But I am taking some pretty significant steps. Only one day after my 35th birthday, the negotiations ended and we made an agreement. Tomorrow I should sign on the dotted line...! I've only thought twice about it once or twice.

 

And that's about all to report since the last time I wrote here. My birthday was great, there just so happened to be, the night before, a reunion of a friends' band (THE AMOKS) from a few years back, so all of our friends were there and word that it was my birthday got out. I got a few gifts... a book, some good coffee and tea, and polka dots... and at midnight, a cold kiss from the mouth of Menno, who arrived just in time. And then we ended up at the Heartbreak Hotel (the unfortunate nickname we've come to use for the house that Leandro and I are subletting until the end of March) for an afterparty with a handful of friends and a crate of beer.

 

The following night, the night of my birthday, I was treated to drinks and dinner, and it was great... until midnight. The birthday was over, and reality struck. It all seems like a bit of an illusion now... it's as if I had a really nice dream. You wake up, and it's over.

 

And now it's time to move on. At 35, I'm moving on in life... I'm not sure what I'm going to do, and I'm not too worried about it. My friend only said "when she's 35" she'd decide what to do with the rest of her life. That means I've got another 360 days or so to figure it out.

 

Winter in Amsterdam

It's been far too long since I've written here. It's time to start again. It's winter in Amsterdam, and it's much nicer to be inside than out. I actually appreciated the dreary weather here when I studied here in 2005 -- it feels better to stay in and read and write while freezing rain and winds slap against those unfortunate enough to need to be out.

I've been busy looking for a permanent home here, and in the meantime living in various friends' and friends-of-friends' houses while they're off vacationing in warmer places. I feel like a bit of a sucker having paid for my current landlord's airfare to Panama in exchange for the keys to his poorly-heated house. But I was there last year. Now it's my turn to suffer.

I'm not suffering because of the house, that's an exaggeration. Things are, for the most part, actually going my way. My plans are all falling into place: I've got an office; am busy officially establishing myself as a tax-paying resident; and am in negotiation to buy a home. Unfortunately, the unplanned development (my favorite kind) of the past few months seems to have fallen apart. But life goes on.

I've got a radio show with some friends here. Here's a direct link to the latest show.