07.18.06

Last night, I definitely had a dream about Peter Sarsgaard, the actor from Boys Don´t Cry and Shattered Glass and what not. He wasn´t very nice. I was in love with his girlfriend and the three of us along with another friend of thers went to a place called Nell Park, which felt like the onramp to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. They made a monkey out of me and left me in tattered clothes lost in a foreign land. I woke up with their laughter ringing in my head.

Slept more than 12 hrs. Hope to get on track today.

To do:
sagrada familia
futbol barca museum
picasso museum
waterfront, monument 2 colon
park guell
aquarium
el raval
las ramblast

The pigeons here look just like NYC pigeons but react differently to human beings. You can get much closer to them than any NYC pigeon would ever allow, which in a way is an example of the difference in crowd movements here. So many sweaty bodies, and the stench of sweat does hang heavy down every street in BArcelona, sometimes it is overwhelming.

Giacomo and I spent most of the day walking around. That´s my favorite way to see a city. Tourist sites have their attraction but if you want to put your finger to a metropolitan pulse you have to beat your feet. We finished the day with some paella and Giacomo went home and was going to head back to Madrid and then the Canary Islands the next day. I´ll miss his companionship, I am alone now.

At the foot of Las Ramblas, at the base of the monument di Colon, I photograph a trio of English homosexuals. Las Ramblas oozes with sex. Perhaps Miller is sinking too deeply into my brain but is it just me or is sex on parade here? I guess that´s Europe. THis rotunda reminds me of one in D.C. where I sat with Miriam, a place where gays came and played mating games with nothing more than eye contact, picking each other up for quick easy lays. I suddenly realize I´m sitting here all curly-haired and kicking my feet in the middle of a gay sex pavillion. To my right a thirty-some-odd woman takes a seat, close enough to make it clear that she is trying to get my attention. I glance briefly, her makeup tells the story of a prostitute. The sun goes down and the city drips with sex.

Other than the arabs walking around peddling warm beer I seem to be the only man alone. At least, I think to myself, loneliness leads to this. Words words words.

I can´t even recall half the thoughts I had as I travelled the length of that amorous avenue, Las Ramblas. Fiction, come to me. Be my lady.

Four Catalan girls, fifteen or sixteen maybe, sit down giggling on the tiled floor a ways away from me - I´m seated in the major plaza at the city center. They take furtive glances around and light up a couple of hash joints. Across the park a mohawk baby dances in his underwear. To my right four Germans put down their cervezas and begin to cartwheel. I´m a writer in a circus.

Everywhere, everyone, all the same, all of the time, languages I can´t understand, both home and here.

Home now.

I sat writing in the Place de Catalunya then tried to board the metro. It was closed; forgot about that, this isn´t New York. Momentary freakout of large proportions. Started walking as an instant defense mechanism, deciding to find my way in transit. A quick consultation of my map showed me an easy route home. People still hanging about. The deeper I walk into la ciutat vella the thicker the layer of whores grows. These arent like the stray backalley prostitutes you usually imagine either. They seem trendier than they do dirty. Most of them are very young, some even beautiful. Their hair is dyed a uniform shade of red that seems designed to magnetize the eyes. I just let my headphones carry me home and avert my eyes.