don't confuse the narrator

reunited!

A full two weeks after it went missing, my suitcase has been returned to me and I have been reunited with my dirty washing.

I have no idea where the case went in the meantime, although at one point I was told that they were looking for it “in eight different airports”. I think it must have gone a long way away, though, as the baggage tag labelled “RUSH” is dated the 7th of December and today is the 15th.

When it first went missing, I started to compile a list of the contents in a spreadsheet in case I needed to claim for them. When I’d reached some hundred items, I began to wonder whether it was all so densely packed that it had caused a singularity in the space time continuum and the case had imploded under its own gravitational pull like a black hole. It was, after all, only a small case.
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female style

The poem I posted a couple of days ago had the Virgin Mary complaining that her sandals weren’t letizios, which is a relatively new entry into Spanish fashion-speke and refers to the high-heeled, peep-toe style of shoe that is such a favourite with Doña Letizia, the wife of the heir to the throne.

That got me thinking about the different garments the Spanish have named after famous women.
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the adjective in question

They say that “on the internet, no one knows you’re a dog” (although I reckon the bitches are usually easy enough to spot). It’s also sometime difficult to tell if the person you’re chatting to is real or a ‘chatbot’.

I reckon that Amy must be a bot –

– or possibly a transgender MtF who hasn’t reassigned adjective endings.
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better late than never

This should, of course, have been posted a couple of days ago for the fiesta de la inmaculada concepción on the 8th, but I’d completely forgotten its existence. It was written as an example of ekphrasis – in this case, a poem inspired by a painting – and I think for once it’s absolutely clear that I am not the narrator.

Inmaculada

Es injusto, ¿sabes? They’ve hung me here,
expect me to balance on this blue-green planet,
not to slip and do myself a permanent
impaled on that luna creciente, despite the worm
at my feet and this beastly little cherub
pulling at my cloak while his colegas try
and sneak a peek up under my robe;
I’m pretty sure that even that one
over on your right who’s looking
rather more demure is actually
checking in the mirror, just in case
he gets a better view.
As for the clothes, ¡qué asco
de ropa me han dado! Couldn’t they afford
a bit of lapis lazuli? They call me
“Queen of Heaven” and yet they dress me
in the dowdiest of drab without a flounce
or furbelow. It’s no good telling me
my sandals have peep toes – sin plataformas,
ni tacones they’re not exactly what you’d call
“letizios”, now, are they? And what about
that blessed bird? Everybody thinks
that it’s a crown of stars I’m wearing, whereas,
in fact, it’s all the good-luck guano
Paloma, there, has found it in her sacred corazón
– or elsewhere – to contribute to this travesty
of taste. No es justo, like I said;
it isn’t fair: here I am, in Spain, hung
on the Prado wall, while out there
in the street, they’re living la movida Madrileña.
Can’t anybody see I’d really rather be
a flamenco dancer?

December images

In no particular order, and with no revision, a few notes that may find their way into poems later on:

Five days torrential rain, then:

Sparkling sunshine;
the orchard
smells of cider.

Mushroom white
figs moulder on the bridle path;
I slip and slime
down to the road.
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