A quick post from Palma, Mallorca

It is the time of year where I leave the city of Madrid and enter the slower, less concerned world of the Mallorquín.  For the month of July, I’ll probably spend less time in front of the computer, and more of the day on the water, orchestrating sailing outings for kids. But there are still experiences and gems of writing material everywhere.

My experience here is not one of safe isolation deep within a group of fellow expats or German tourists. Fortunately, I am forced to communicate on a daily basis in a foreign tongue, on the often complex and esoteric topic of boats, and it is for this reason that I learn more Spanish in one month in Mallorca than 6 months in Madrid.  It is often uncomfortable, and I am regularly disgusted with my sad level of Spanish, but it is a necessary discomfort.

Today, I am also thinking about creative writing, because as I woke this morning, I read news that probably my all-time favorite writer, Gabriel García Márquez, is suffering from dementia and loosing  his memory.  Of all the things for a writer to lose, memory and awareness of reality must be the most tragic, like a singer’s voice, or an athlete’s limb, or even a chef’s sense of taste.  He has been a great inspiration to me and how I’ve tried to develop my creative process. More than any song or news story, more than many of the acquaintances I’ve come across in life, his characters have left lasting impressions on me, thanks to his creativity, deep understanding of humanity and his use of magical realism.

A long excerpt (in the spirit of the dense One Hundred Years of Solitude):

Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice. At that time Macondo was a village of twenty adobe houses, built on the bank of a river of clear water that ran along a bed of polished stones, which were white and enormous, like prehistoric eggs. The world was so recent that many things lacked names, and in order to indicate them it was necessary to point. Every year during the month of March a family of ragged gypsies would set up their tents near the village, and with a great uproar of pipes and kettledrums they would display new inventions. First they brought the magnet. A heavy gypsy with an untamed beard and sparrow hands, who introduced himself as Melquíades, put on a bold public demonstration of what he himself called the eighth wonder of the learned alchemists of Macedonia. He went from house to house dragging two metal ingots and everybody was amazed to see pots, pans, tongs, and braziers tumble down from their places and beams creak from the desperation of nails and screws trying to emerge, and even objects that had been lost for a long time appeared from where they had been searched for most and went dragging along in turbulent confusion behind Melquíades’ magical irons. “Things have a life of their own,” the gypsy proclaimed with a harsh accent. “It’s simply a matter of waking up their souls.” José Arcadio Buendía, whose unbridled imagination always went beyond the genius of nature and even beyond miracles and magic, thought that it would be possible to make use of that useless invention to extract gold from the bowels of the earth. Melquíades, who was an honest man, warned him: “It won’t work for that.” But José Arcadio Buendía at that time did not believe in the honesty of gypsies, so he traded his mule and a pair of goats for the two magnetized ingots. Úrsula Iguarán, his wife, who relied on those animals to increase their poor domestic holdings, was unable to dissuade him. “Very soon we’ll have gold enough and more to pave the floors of the house,” her husband replied. For several months he worked hard to demonstrate the truth of his idea. He explored every inch of the region, even the riverbed, dragging the two iron ingots along and reciting Melquíades’ incantation aloud. The only thing he succeeded in doing was to unearth a suit of fifteenth-century armor which had all of its pieces soldered together with rust and inside of which there was the hollow resonance of an enormous stone-filled gourd. When José Arcadio Buendía and the four men of his expedition managed to take the armor apart, they found inside a calcified skeleton with a copper locket containing a woman’s hair around its neck.


2 thoughts on “A quick post from Palma, Mallorca

  1. “He repeated until his dying day that there was no one with more common sense, no stone cutter more obstinate, no manager more lucid or dangerous, than a poet.”
    ― Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez

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