cutting great neck

I will be on an airplane in less than 24 hours. I am somewhat scared, especially of terrorists or crash rather than sickness or something like that. Though I'll get over it, so many people fly nowadays I don't really care anymore.

And Barcelona! Oh, Barcelona! Spain, oh Spain, I'm coming back, just as I promised one year ago! I'll come to you, Barcelona, a city of lights, a city that never sleeps, a city of culture and beauty and exoticness, of scintillating emotion that I long to rejoice in, of freedom and love and romance and history.

How do I know? Because the blood of Barcelona blended through my own, and I can feel the rings of traffic pumping oil under my skins--I can't wait, I can't wait. This has been an object of killin time in this terrible, terrible Saint D. until the day would come--today!--that would save me from the nails of Carmel Valley, the terrible, terrible nails.

How I miss Madrid--and yet everybody's mantim is that Madrid is worse than Barcelona, which is the most wonderful city in the world. And Madrid--ah!--the darkness of the night hidden by the brown flesh of the Spaniards, the legs of ham hung like rats all across the walls, the chocolate that sticks to the bottom of the spoon and never drips like water.

"...down the murky street towards the palace, towards the December fire.

Balls of fire! Aglow with rich red, they stood in the front—the smoke was deep, and the sweat on her forehead twinkled with the stars—huge spears stood in the grass, blazing the skies. People that were shivering just a minute before were now pushing their bodies to the fire until their faces turned a shade of cherry. The woman smiled the biggest smile before marching away from the lights, towards the café.

...

The drums started, the men sang, the guitar was sobbing all over the parquet, the painting in the background shone with the candles ginger, and the three women rose up. Their shoes snapped against the floorboards, their eyes misty with the act—and then they started yelling, yelling like the African warriors, and they circled on the floor, tick-tack, tick-tack, tick-tack, slow and then faster and faster, like blood their dresses faded in and out, in and out, a veil of lust, heel shoes hacking in the still air, darkness plugs inside their chests, they flamenco through the night, cheers, a standing ovation in such a crowded room is simply treacherous! T
hen it stops. The place is completely silent. Everyone shakes hands, leaves. She rises too, undresses, puts on her coat, slithers her way and climbs up the hill to fetch a taxi back home.

What a night!

Every eleven it starts…but Madrid doesn’t end with morning." -from my "Scarlet Night".

Oh, if only Barcelona were better!

-----

But between visiting Barcelona or Israel, I would obviously, infinitely, blatantly decide upon the country of my home, the home of my country, the heart of mine. There, all my family--Rony! Matan! Evelyn! Eitan! Savta Ani, Savta Nety, Savta Nety, Savta Ani. And Paula! And Friends, oh joyous, wonderful Friends! Should I just list them:

Elai, Sai, Matan, Nir, Chen, oh and So Much More!

I miss it SO TERRIBLY! The nights, the mornings, the noons, the afternoons, the loves, the hates, the dull moments, the bright moments, the air, the cars--imagine, cars and cars and crazy drivers and seas and deserts and hedonists, full of hedonists who seek nirvana in the beauty and glory of the Holy Land and the Hebrew, oh what a Wonderous Language!

How I miss the slur from the KAH! to the RAH! to the LAH! and the night, oh the night, so dark...and biking in the rain, in the sand, and the buildings, tall and orange, packed with human beings. And my own room at night. I forget how it looked like, I forget how it sounded like...

And I am not scared of bombs, or shooters, or meanies who wish to Kill Me--Israel is the country for that!

Oh, how I WANT to go! In less than a week, I will be there! And in less than two days...

Barcelona, here I come!