It is but a matter of time

I’m not sure why I started writing again.

Not that I feel it necessary to glorify my trivial life in books nor blogs, despite having written much for both mediums in recent years…

At this time, now, I know it to be so that one accumulates value from that which I ‘ve seen and experienced and it is these things, a scrapbook of sorts, that charts some navigable destiny through my various and varied interests and the ebb and flow of my once prodigious output, that I come back to from time to time.

These are words in a language that came none to easy. My formative years were uttered, gestured and heard in German. I was never taught to read nor write in German, but once I had English at my disposal, with the help of my sister, Annette, and the many books my father brought home for me, I read with determination stories of far away worlds, ancient and future civilisations, stretching my imagination for beyond the horizon I would climb to see from the top of the pear tree in our Guildford backyard.

On returning from a short trip to Barcelona I had found myself watching, purely by chance, the Neasa Hardiman and Dearbhla Walsh documentary, Imagining Ulysses. Not only had I for the first time understood James Joyce’s revolutionary novel, fatalistically titled, Ulysses, I had a glimpse into Joyce’s sense of purpose, in that he knew exactly what he was required to do and devoted himself entirely and appropriately to the task… the job of bringing to the future a shockingly daring fusion of language, sound and image, that would be a precise and unflinching shift in cultural consciousness unlike no other.

It is no mystery that I am attracted to both the complexities and minimalistic aesthetics explored in many art forms. From architecture to photography, from painting to sculpture, from jewellery to sound, from music to film, I travel in search of that which men and women have toiled over, their efforts to bring to us new ways in which to understand ourselves and the multiple worlds – from spirit to flesh – we inhabit.

Sundays in Barcelona

Sunday’s are generally languid. As a child they smelt of roast chicken and freshly cut grass. They came with the sound of church bells, not one, but many. I recall at least two or three within listening distance serving to the denominations that lived within walking distance or a short bus ride. It was no different in Barcelona except it was a public holiday Monday and I was drawn to coffees and ham, wandering from the Hotel Bonanova Park on Capità Arenas, weaving in and out of vast streets lined with impressive apartments.

Church bells rung from stone, not weatherboard towers, and ricochetted from pavements to squares. One such square, on the Passeig de la Elisenda de Montcada, was presided over by a church, its spire clock at 12:56pm, in Roman numerals, a gesture perhaps to an empire of equal repute as that of the Spanish. Amateur painters displayed their canvases, elderly folk sat on generous benches, many reading. As the clock struck 12:57 bus number 1722 destined for stop 22 pulled up nearby. At 12:58 a four-wheeled drive drove audaciously into the square parking close to where I sat. The driver stepped out, dusted his rear window and put in a call to someone. At 1:05 another car arrived, signalling to the four-wheeler who proceeded to reverse out in an over-sized manner, too closely to one of the stalls and far too close to me for my liking. I noticed the scrape all along the drivers side panel.

Curiously, no one else seemed to mind. Perhaps many of the people there had four-wheeled drives parked nearby. In those streets, such cars are not only entirely impractical, they are a menace. At the time of writing, I am still repairing from one I had bumped into. It was parked, however I had mis-judged its width when moving clear of a passing scooter. Ouch!

Around 1:15pm I left the square and headed back to the Hotel where I would collect Karen Banks for lunch, seeing her off till our next meeting in November.

On Sunday, I would do near the same, but would take provisions and see if I could not find the old city that Chris Nicol talked so fondly of.

Para-lel station seemed like a good place to start. From there I walked down to the terribly modern Barcelona Cruise Port that supports something in the order of 1.2 million passengers a year. I stood marvelling at the sea water, the sky, the hi-tech cruisers and the people pouring onto every open space. It was pleasantly hot and for all I knew, everything… everything was good in the world that day. So, I continued, and I did so along the bay, parallel to the rather generous bicycle lanes, until it felt time to head back in towards the city. I crossed the Ronda del Litoral and over the Passieg de Colom and into a tiny square that lead to a thin thoroughfare, Carrer Ample. I had found the Barri Gotic, the centre of Barcelona from where the city grew. My eyes widened. My pace slowed.

I took the streets and alleyways less clogged with tourists, tiny streets, older than any street in Melbourne. Being as it was Sunday, the district I had wandered into was host to countless boutiques, record stores and tattoo parlours which were all but shut, their graffiti soaked shutters down, that heady juncture of inner-urban “grimecore” where I would, on any other day, enter.

This was a well cared for, long lived place. It was clean. Women could be seen on the second floors dusting windows and ornaments. It smelt of damp timber and the hint of food, a complex synthesis of oils, vegetables and meats that lay just beyond what could he heard… it was total immersion, rudely plucked from by the idle, repetitive ramblings of tourists, their phone chatter and clumsy, often intrusive, photo opportunities.

Sagrada Familia

It was the briefest of visits to one of the more engaging of cities. From May 30 to June 5 I strolled, commuted, sat and wrote my way through every spare moment afforded to me by this opportunity to explore what I could of Barcelona, the capital city of Catalonia, Spain.

As a member of the APC Executive Board, even though I am listed as an alternative (kept in reserve should there be a resignation or otherwise of any of the eight primary elected), I have been fortuitous to have been invited to participate in every meeting since this new Board was founded in 2005.

Stepping out for my first evening beyond the perimeter of the meeting, a small crew of us from the APC, took off for a double line ride on the Metro, taking the L3 from Maria Cristina and changing at Paral-lel for the L2, to get to one of the most remarkable achievements of the early 20th century.

As I leapt from the underground I heard Karen Banks, just ahead of me, gasp! I turned quickly and faced Antoni Gaudi’s Temple De La Sagrada Familia! I could barely mutter an expletive… I nearly fainted.

This dense thug of rock, mad with furious detail, thrusting out onto the world as if a meteorite had at that instant crashed to the Earth, and at the point of impact, held immediately suspended… and you could almost hear it… it sang to me, from deep within its precisely honed stone and its hyperboloid structures.

She rises from the ground and falls from the sky simultaneously,
a billion siren screams strong
held at a distance
by the sweetness of cinnamon and amber resin,
perceptible to perhaps this human alone,
at this moment…
I, that am…
mercilessly challenged by this beast
of beauty and horror across all senses relentless.

Not unlike any street in Fontana, where I had spent my final evening in Barcelona, but some where within the vicinity of Avinguda de Gaudi, Sagrada Familia, from the pavement table of the Granja Cefeteria Catalunya I would ask: …will Gaudi’s Cathedral ever become a place of worship or will it remain an unfinished masterpiece and reliable income earner for the city?

The Temple De La Sagrada Familia continues to inspire many to gape in awe and others to photograph it relentlessly. One can only hope it gives rise to greatness, that we would, at the very least, become more aware of the legacies left to us and that which we too will leave future generations.

I believe the Catalans are very proud of their cultural heritage. One can see it in the care and discipline of the architecture that followed Gaudi, particularly that of the countless apartment blocks that make up the bulk of city’s respectable, low-eyeline skyline. The Temple De La Sagrada Familia, designed to not exceed the height of the tallest mountain in the region, is one of the very few structures that rise well above the city leaving plenty of room for sunlight and sweeping views of the sky. One’s peripheral vision is exercised in Barcelona across both its carefully considered buildings and their confident inhabitants.

I was particularly keen to find the right angle from which to photograph the dramatic Passion facade. Despite all the photos being taken by the hundreds of tourists around me, I wanted to photograph how I saw this work, to highlight the robustness of this structure, the daring and will power of a single vision – a vision that stalks the present architects who have at their disposal terribly efficient technologies whereas Gaudi continued to build the Temple De La Sagrada Familia from his head until his untimely death.

The Practical Laneways of Barcelona

Just another of the many, many gorgeous side-streets that beckon a stroll! Each entirely different from the other, each their own distinct voice and the characteristics of the hour: the smell of freshly mopped floors and the never dull chime of a nearby bell tower striking but once.

It is astonishing to the eye to look down these many side-streets and lane ways and see not a single car. On a warm evening there would be walking, cycling or scootering to the squares which so often these streets would lead to: the unfamiliar passerby rarely goes unnoticed by those who know these streets.

Imagine Flinders Lane without the cars, with every space almost entirely offered for residential premises and trees… imagine this multiplied across Melbourne in the 10’s of thousands.

Barcelona

Am in Barcelona and getting a head full of new web 2.0 applications and uses… along with some of the best food I’ve had since my last trip to Seoul!

The tomato’s have a depth to them near forgotten and the ham!!! Hard to give up on meat in this city…

Arrived 30 May. APC EBoard Meeting commenced 31 May and will take me up to 2 July.

I’ve had no decent rest for around 6 weeks now and I must admit to some apprehension to another few days of intense activity, let alone the OPEN CHANNEL work I’ve to complete here… Will stay till at least the 5th.

Looking forward to just walking around, particularly looking forward to seeing the Sagrada Familia, one of the top three human creations I’d wanted to see before dying. Believe it or not, I’m actually on what is generally known as leave.