Half a flamenco dancer

Oooh, the sky lowers and the day grows dark!
Leaves are spiralling already (August, what happened to you?) and a wind stirs the trees in ominous stormbode, leaden thick clouds ready to make torrent a verb all the way down to earth, to silver grey Scotland,to Murrayfield where my husband and chum are watching the rugby.
I am at home. Dry.
Life is good.

Went to this last night. https://feverup.com/m/132962

Candlelight and perfect acoustics, what could be better? The flamenco was magnificent; Monica Tello's upper body work is stunning, her hands like birds, her back and neck and arms extraordinary art in movement and stillness. She even used the castanets properly, creating drama in the sudden release from the sound as well as their rhythm. She is the best I have seen in years, a far cry from the smiley dances now found in the caves and tavernas of the Albaicin, a dancer who reminded me of how they used to be, all sinew and grace, generally living on 40 gauloises a day and a neck full of rioja, ready to go ten rounds kickboxing with their ballet counterparts. But I couldn't comment on her footwork, because the staging was hopeless for that. Those cave dances are shiny and touristy but they also allow for the base principle of the dance, which is that you get to observe angry tap close up. You can't do that rows and rows back. The stage must be raised or the performance needs to be in the round with as many chairs in the front row as possible, or half the dance is lost.

So it was that for me, the stars of the performance were the extraordinary primitivos and the exquisite guitar which ran like a river all through it... It took me back a very long time, when flamenco singers could still be discordant, unpolished and unrepentant and almost entirely lacking in melodic sweetness. I remember fiesta fires and people dancing, the moon above the Alhambra and a man down by the Darro, a soldier with a wry smile looking at me on a night about which I could never write a poem because Frederick Garcia Lorca has already done it so well. I was young then, 14, 15, and that man smiled at me, murmuring 'Guadeloupe' which is generally used to allude to the Virgin Mary - or any virgin, though the word may originally come from a combination of Arabic Wad meaning 'river' and Latin Lupus meaning 'wolf' which would also work in this context. I had strayed a bit far from the family, but I was used to the city being very safe. And there was the night and the world, the clever strings and clapping hands everywhere, and this man standing down by the water calling me. I shook my head and ran all the way along the Carrera, right back to Santa Ana, where I got a sound telling off for going anywhere at all by myself, let alone towards the gypsy end of town. There was no telling them that the man calling me was a soldier of some kind, they were convinced he had to be a gypsy. Someone went to check, but no such man could be found. One person suggested it was a ghost. It was a long time ago.

That's the thing about the Spanish guitar. When I compare it to the harp, I inevitably see the latter as a magical instrument bound to lead me into Tir-Na-Nog or past the gates of Arawn into the otherworld which I so love. But the Spanish guitar is a magic that takes me deep into the heart of Spain in all its ferocity and beauty, as much Pans Labyrinth as El Amor Brujo. And when I go through that, I don't know where I come out.

It's worth knowing that both harp and guitar will heal. Maybe all music does.

Once the visual impressions and memories emptied, all that was left was the music moving through me. Impossible to describe it; only to say when I came home, my chest still hurt but it didn't make me cry. And when I slept my sleep was deep and easy.

Tonight, we meet some friends with good red wine, cheese, and cannoli. I like today.