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Aire cálido de abril
Silently, step by step, Spring has arrived. Some have felt the rush of light to bring us warmth to our bones, and have got rid of their grey clothes and face. Some have gone further, into red in nose and eyes to be exact; pollen has done its part for it.
It is said that there are some that do not like this season at all. Me, I admit, as I do with my two or three weaknesses, that I am not part of them, affected by hayfever as I am. It is your own fault, or so they will say, and they will see me cry for it. People watch me pass by and they wonder what is going on with my broken heart...
Sorry, gentlemen, I am not really romantic. It is said that I am kind of prosaic; I would not say so, except that the last poem I read cured my insomnia after several months. I do not sing about love (if you do not mind, I prefer not to lose my time in words and make it straight), nor I send flowers in my letters (they do not fit in my mobile phone and I do not know how to put them in the computer, or is there any other mail system?). I do not even fall in love with the singing of the birds in their nests; I can imagine how a happy couple will have in short a bellyful of screaming chicks demanding their piece of worm and, well, it turns me off.
Still I insisnt, despite all this I like Spring, and in Spring I like April. More than May and June, yes, with all the flowery, delightful weather, and lack of clothes in the girls passing by my side.
Of course each month has its personal charming and peculiarities: the Cruces, the feria... Even March, considering it, has something, the first blows of warm air that suggest something better waiting for you behind the corner. Waitings, if carried out properly, can be as pleasant as the very moment of action...
If you are thinking about the Feria de abril, you'd better forget about it. Without any hard feelings against sevillians, or at least people with a specific name, Seville is not my piece of cake. Someone told me that this is prejudice, and I replied that indeed they were; my bit of malagueño arouses and screams that there is nothing like Easter in Larios street, although listening to the saeta on wednesday night is something worth to experience.
It is a fact that fiestas, laicist or religious, make my month more special. They are part of the whole, let us say subjetively a ten percent.
I like April for some details that, small as they can be, fill big parts of my life. Probably I am not the first one that happens to feel this; deep inside I am an optimistic and I realize that everything makes sense for a few seconds.
Imagine yourself one day, sitting at the stairs of the patio. It is a lazy afternoon, it takes some effort to move among the silece of the siesta and the whispering of the sparrows. A gust of warm breeze stirs up the hair of your arms, laid over your knees with no intention to move. You stare vaguely at the creases of the whitewashed wall, where beams of sunlight slip and flies play hide-and-seek. You breathe hard forcing yourself with the reward of a sweet scent penetrating the pores of your skin. You will try to concentrate and you will fail, for your mind will try to get the most of this pleasant rapture that takes you away for an instant from rules and worries.
All this sensations have an end coming near, and so it must be. We cannot live forever in such state of grace, much as we may like it. Sooner or later we will get up, set our feet in the ground and routine will continue. But once you have gone this way nothing will ever be the same. Like bathing in the Ganges river, something deep inside tells you how the world has a different colour now.
It
can be addictive, I warn you. A cruel addiction, for it is brief. I do
my best to handle it, because I have my own tricks. My April gives you
a day-dream and a night promise, something to consider too. Actually,
with your allowance I will leave you here; there is something waiting
for me and a whole night for the search.
The
Garden of Castila, study area.
El
Carmen de los Gatos, April 11 2006, 11:45 a.m.