Not So Deep Thoughts

Over two months ago, I applied to work as a teacher in one of the British Council’s centers that offers an intensive summer course in English - a very well regarded program and very well paid position - exactly what I need to be able to pay for my music studies come September.

But the British Council isn’t one to take in any teacher off the street - these people have a reputation and a book that they must go by in order to maintain such image. I was called in for an interview sometime in mid-May, sat in a room across the table from two members of the BC staff who, for the next hour, worked their way down a 3 page list of questions they had prepared for all prospective teachers. All of my necessary documents were photocopied and I even signed a few legal documents of their own, which I thought a good sign. Afterwards, and this proves there’s a first for everything, an employer actually CALLED the references that they asked I give.

A week later they offered me the job.

That was a month ago.

And I was thrilled.

I knew I’d be working a lot, but I knew why I would be doing it - to study music in the fall. My school is far from relatively cheap and this job with the BC was the perfect opportunity for me. I never once questioned that my status as a legal resident with student status would be a problem for me. It was explained to me in full that I, as a resident with a identity number, social security number, etc, etc, had every legal right to work here in Spain. In fact, I’ve been legally working, with a contract, paying social security for well over 8 months now. The only difference is, as a student, I cannot work full time. But work I may.

But not according to some people. I get a phone call from the British Council representative saying that there IS a problem with my work status. I try to tell them that there is no problem, but they insist there is. It turns out that that the book they go by requires that I provide written proof that I may work in Spain. A process that’s a bit complicated and that requires the assistance of the employer (one which I already have and who is willing to assist) - but a relatively painless process which takes less that a week to complete.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a week.

They gave me 1 day.

Today should have been my first day of work.

They told me on Wednesday afternoon that I needed to have done something the week before and that they’re sorry but their ‘hands are tied’ and cannot help me - although they’d had the entire month beforehand to notify me of this required document.
And here I am on Friday. With enough work to maybe get through the summer months and arrive in September with a 1/10 of what I need to pay the school come Sept. 15.

But of course, as one door closes, another one opens. And I’m very thankful to the people who are helping me look for doors to open, my love goes out to you. But this door didn’t simply close before I got to it - it virtually slammed shut on my nose as I started to pass through it; and my hands are still up to my face trying to sooth away the pain and my eyes are still watering, making it hard to see all, if any of the doors that are in the process of opening.
There will be nothing planned about the next month or so - the luck of spontaneity shall be my guide; let’s just hope the odds are in my favor this time. (and, of course, that the new teacher they hire to take my place turns out to be a completely incompetent twit.)

I don’t think what I’m about to say anyone else knows. Not quite a dirty little secret, and yet there’s something just odd enough in it being that I’m sure I could probably get a raised eyebrow from at least one psychoanalyst.

Last night, as I was walking home from a dinner party, I found a playing card lying on the ground just around the corner of my street. Just one card. Face up. A card that I have a long history with: The King of Hearts.

You see, I’ve played my fair share of Solitaire, starting with the actual real life version involving dealing the cards yourself and never expecting the cards to go off jumping around the room as soon as you finished off the last pile of cards. And once it hit the digital age, there was no stopping me. I used to play game after game after game, watching the hours of my life being filed under ‘Solitaire’ in the filing cabinet of my life.

But there came a time when I didn’t win a single game for months on end. It wasn’t a streak of bad luck nor Rosencrantz-like chances of dealing on the wrong side of the three card draw ad infinitum. No, the fact that I didn’t successfully finish off the end of any of those games was because of my own doing.

You see, do you remember that point towards the end where the game a had switched from tactical card maneuvering to moving the bottom card of the four long arranged piles to the neat little ones at the top, one by one. This home stretch of the game left no doubt of winning in the players mind; it was just a matter of enjoying the victory lap. I’m sure none of us would dispute it if someone just pointed to the 4 long piles waiting to be filed up to the tops ones and said, “Is this good enough? Do I really have to go through the bother of arranging them again?”

But I would go through with the ritual, up until the very last card, which would always be the King of Hearts; and then I would stop, turn over all the cards, mix them into one pile, shuffle, and do it all over again.

I’m really not sure how to interpret it either; that or how to interpret finding that lone card lying on the street. True, the last month has been a time of many endings for me, but how does this relate? Putting the King of Hearts up top would bring the game to the end, but you’d also being winning said game, and that’s not such a bad thing. Plus, the fact that the King is the only card left on the board means that the game is won, regardless of whether or not it’s moved up top.

So what the hell does it all mean? I don’t like winning? I like winning but I’m modest? I can’t finish something I’ve started? I’m not one to stand on ceremony? I just really don’t like those damn jumping cards?

And here I am, sitting here fiddling with the King of Hearts in my hands, wondering what, if anything, it means, where the pile to which it belongs is to be found and whether or not to put it down.

God, I need to turn off my brain - - - Going to Barcelona tomorrow to teach for a few days - - - that should help, or at least be better than the King of Hearts’ brilliant idea of getting rid of HIS headache:

Recent article on Mad Men, the new original series premiering on July 19th on AMC, featuring my brother Michael (the second from the right.)

I just got back from seeing Rufus Wainwright - and the concert was great. A lot of his new stuff with a few of the old sprinkled in. Good times. Snuck my camera in with me and got some footooos. I’ll put them up later, but here’s one for a teaser.

“We only see what we believe is possible -Native American Indians on Caribbean Islands couldn’t see Columbus’s ships [sitting on the horizon] because they were beyond their knowledge” Dr. Candace Pert

It’s hard to say where Candace Pert got the low-down on what the Native American Indians did or didn’t see when Columbus and the gang hit the horizon. Columbus certainly didn’t speak the language, and the locals didn’t keep written records. Only the Shaman knows, and we’re about 500 years too late to ask him.

But she is right about us not seeing things in front of our eyes if we’re not looking for them. A classic experiment on visual processing involves asking people to watch a video of 6 people passing a basketball, and press a button every time a particular team has possession. Invariably only about half the people tested ever notice a woman in a gorilla suit walking across the middle of the screen during the game. We’re such a shallow people.

-Bernie Hobbes reaction to said allegation.

This example of this phenomena is the first thing that popped into my head once I’d recovered from a rather unnerving experience in the metro today.

I’m standing in the 3rd car from the front, half full of people and halfway between the stations of Rios Rosas and Iglesia on Line 1, god knows how many meters under the ground. And then it happens.

First my pocket vibrates. And then an awfully familiar noise comes a split second after that. I know that sound. It’s the sound my cell phone makes. I look at the people standing around me to see if they hear it too. I reach into my pocket. It’s the student who I’m on my way to give class to. I let it ring an extra time in my hand, just to make sure it’s really happening. I flip it open and slowly put it up to my ear. “Yees?” She tells me that she can’t have class and was wondering if I would be willing to reschedule some other afternoon. “OK?”, is all that comes out. People are looking at me. I look back trying to say with my expression, “I’m just as confused as you are.” Do they think I’m one of those people who pretends they’re getting a phone call when they’re just talking to themselves? She goes on to tell me which days she’s available. Another passenger takes out his cell phone to see if his works. I stop paying attention to my student to see if his magically gets signal too. It doesn’t. I tell her to give me a ring later when she knows when she’d like to have class and we hang up. The train pulls into my usual stop, and I hesitate for a moment, should I go one more to the student’s stop? Not quite sure if I had just imagined the whole conversation. Was I hallucinating? Will I get a phone call from her in 20 minutes asking me where the hell I am?

Well it’s an hour later, and she still hasn’t called. So I guess that mean it really happened. Strange is the feeling when what you think is really real really isn’t as real as you really thought - like “No one ever talks on their cell phone in the metro - because it’s impossible.”

That or I’m tripping balls and the sound of my boss calling looking for me is actually the sound of the ocean that I hear as I type this. And that original phone call was my subconcious saying, “Hey, you deserve a nap little buddy. You don’t have to go to that class. Honestly.”

(P.S. - Here’s a Zelda Fan’s thoughts on the subject.)

With A Nature Documentary:

Well, it’s 5:30 in the morning on Tuesday, and Annelies just left for the airport. Not doing such a great job at getting back to sleep. Too many things running through my mind – mixed feelings about the weekend. Lots of high hopes and lots of let downs.

As is obvious from the last post, so many of the problems came from trying to meet up with people that by Sunday evening, we just stopped trying anymore. We found that plan of attack to be surprisingly stress free once implemented.

We had too many hopes that people would want to spend time with us, but in the end, we found that if we weren’t willing to do what the other person was doing when they were doing it, then they weren’t interested in making the effort. That explains the absurd amount of waiting we did. And that explains the multiple offers we had for us to join them and the multiple passes on them joining us.

I know the prime objective of Annelies coming to Madrid was to spend time with me, but we both were really interested in sharing some of that time with old friends as well. Too bad we happened to pick the one weekend where everyone had higher priorities.

This has kinda been a rough time for me lately, here in Madrid. Annelies, apart from the relationship aspect, has really been a truly great friend to me; here and from Belgium. She would love to come back to Madrid, but her entire life, career, family, and friends are up in Belgium. And I have no idea where the hell I’ll be after I finish this music course – Madrid, CT, NY, who knows; a life with enough uncertainty to warrant keeping whatever we may have between us at a distance.

Speaking of distance, many of the friends I have here in Madrid will be calling this summer their last here. Times are a changing and so are they. Nathan, Edurne, and Zoe will be packing their bags and heading to greener pastures. Many people I’ve come to know through the music school will not be coming back next year as well. And if someone doesn’t have any plans on moving out, then they’ve definitely made plans to get the hell out of Madrid for the summer months.

I guess that’s why I took a lot of what happened this weekend so hard – These next few months have the potential of being rather lonely ones, and I know I’ll have to rely on the few friends I have here in Madrid to keep me going; I’m just not sure who they’ll be.

Not so long ago in a place called Here, Madrid:

I’m leaving a rehearsal for a play I’d been working on for awhile, and one of the guys involved, Zack* (*names changed to protect me from their wrath if said person were to actually read this.), suggests that we all go grab some dinner and a beer together. You know, unwind after a long evening of rehearsing. We agree on a place to go, and when we’re halfway there, Zack gets a phone call. After a short, enthusiastic conversation, he hangs up and informs us that he won’t be able to hang out with us because he just got invited to a dinner at a friend’s house. That kind of killed the spontaneity of the plan and the rest of us decide to just continue on home like we intended to in the first place. Zack’s friend just so happens to live somewhat near my house, so Zack and I head off in the same direction as the other two go different ways. Zack turns to me a few blocks later and asks me, “Did I just tell you guys that I can’t go out with y’all because I have something better to do.” “Yes…” I reply.

My friend Hanna* invites me over to her place for dinner with her boyfriend and flat mates. She sends me a text with her address and the time to come, 8:30. Not wanting to show up too punctual, (this IS Spain after all) I decide to walk to her apartment instead of taking the metro and browse the local alimentacion’s fine wine selection before ringing at her door at 8:45. A surprised voice pops up over the intercom, ‘Who is it??” –“It’s me, Paul” –“Wow, you’re really early!!!” I tried point out to her that I was in fact late, 15 minutes late, but all that got me was a wave of the hand and surely something along the lines of “Hey! We’re in Spain now!” She started cooking a little after 9:30 and we didn’t sit down to eat until 11:00 – 2 ½ hours later…

It’s a fine afternoon on a weekend during Autumn, and I give my friend Isabel* a call to see if she wants to hang out. She says she’s busy that day, but is available the next day, Sunday, early afternoon. We agree to meet in the center at 2:00. Isabel arrives in the center, looks down at her watch, “1:55” – Early. A little while later, she looks down at her watch again, 2:15 – and I’m still not there. 2:25, 2:37, 2:45 – and I’m still not there. She calls, sounding ten kinds of pissed off. “Paul! Where the hell are you?!? You were supposed to be here 45 minutes ago!” “Honey,” I reply, “Today is daylight saving time; we set our clocks back an hour early this morning. I’ll be there in 15 minutes – on time.”

And any person who has ever lived in Spain could easily rattle off a dozen examples of people showing up absurdly late and using the excuse, “Heeeeeeeeeeeeeey!!! We’re in Spaaaaiiin!!” (…while annoyingly scrunching their brows and smirking condescendingly, pretending that by using this worn out excuse to pardon their inconsiderate behavior, they’re proving just how much more “Spanish” they are than you.)

The problem with time is that our own is always more important than everyone else’s. But, in order to avoid people randomly showing up on our doorstep whenever the wind blows them our way, we tend take the other person’s schedule into consideration, and look for a time when both schedules coincide and plan to share our two times together.

We also understand that no one’s perfect and it’s just not realistic for everyone to show up exactly on time. We all have a window of time that we’re willing to wait standing around for another person to show up – usually 5 min (for class and meetings) to 15/20 mins (meeting up with friends for a drink.) We ask ourselves, “Are they meeting up with only me?” and hurry along quicker because they know I’m waiting alone, or are they joining a group and therefore take their time showing up?

Sometimes it just depends on knowing the other person well enough to know more or less when they’re going to show up. My friend Seven ALWAYS shows up 10 minutes early. So, I’ve learned to light a fire underneath my ass when I know she’s waiting for me somewhere. With other friends, I can show up 15 minutes late and still wait another 15 minutes for them to show up. More or less, abiding by these standards and a general knowledge of your friends’ habits can keep things going smoothly.

But sometimes, shit can really hit the fan. As is obvious in the experiences I wrote about above, being inconsiderate or being extremely loose with your planning or just plain ol’ miscommunication can cause problems. Even moods can void out any expectations you’ve created around meeting up with certain friends – and these can be rather unforeseeable: A friend who usually gets pissed off if they have to wait more than 5 minutes, meets a cute boy while standing around and hits it off with him – every minute you’re late becomes a precious extra moment they have with this new stranger. Or another friend, who’s stuck talking to some creepy guy while waiting for you, spites you more and more for every one of those 15 minutes you’re late. Etc etc etc… The point is – making plans can fucking suck sometimes and make you never want to leave the house again.

This weekend has been a good example of that ‘sometimes.’

Annelies came down from Belgium to pay a visit to me and Madrid this weekend. It had been 5 months since she was last here and she was really excited to see the old city again and possibly run into a few old faces along the way.

I’m really tempted to write out all of the disappointments we had this weekend trying to meet up with friends – just because of how many there were… But, explaining each and every one out would be long and only good for therapy’s sake, and anyone who has read this far probably doesn’t want to hear it.

To summarize: There was one who agreed to meet us and made plans with other people just moments later, and showed up after 2 ½ hours waiting for them. There was another who agreed to meet knowing they already had plans with someone else, and cancelled with us upon realizing that they would have to commit to spending time with us, not us with them. Another friend who we had to call and wake up 2 times to get him over to have a drink with us – at 4 in the afternoon. And of course, the standard Spanish 1 hour flexibility time – agreeing to meet another person at a specific time and then waiting over an hour for them to show up.

Really, it was one hit after another this weekend. I haven’t felt this unappreciated in a long time. It either felt that everyone had something better to do or that anything we were doing was less important than what they were doing. I know that some were not because of bad will towards us (I hope not anyways) or maybe it was a case of obliviousness, but every hit that followed the one before it stung a little worse. One time is acceptable. Two, coincidence. Three, bad luck. Four, what the fuck???

In all fairness though, I must call out one more group of culprits this weekend – us. Last night, Annelies and I got home after walking around La Latina all afternoon and thought it a good idea to go have Indian food in Lavapies and invite some friends to come along. I call up to invite a friend of mine to come along, but she declines, as she had just recently eaten. She mentions that she’s hanging out in a bar with a friend of hers which is rather near where we’re going to eat, so I suggest that we pass by before dinner and have an aperitif with them. Annelies and I, not feeling in any rush, as these friends were already well situated at this bar, and we’re only passing through, decided to keep calling other friends and take our time getting out the door. Of course, what we assumed was not what they assumed. They thought we were right around the corner and would be there momentarily. So when 30 minutes had passed and we hadn’t arrived, they called to say, “WTF??” We were on our way, but had just begun the 20 minute walk to the bar, which took them by complete surprise. They told us to forget it and that they were leaving. Beautiful, beautiful irony. Annelies and I spend half of our weekend waiting for people to get around to showing up, and the most violent reaction of the weekend was caused by us.

And people criticize me for not making plans often enough. It’s because the thought of trying to organize the noncommittal sounds too tiring and frustrating. And it’s proven to be true this weekend - it was really, really trying to get past the disappointments and enjoy the little time I had with someone important to me, who made the effort to come spend time with me.

Last night, I and 5 other fine feathered friends ended our long journey up one step from the main floor in BarCo onto the stage to strut our stuff and play some Muzack for the friends and family who were kind enough to show up for the other groups. Haha, no, my friends are awesome, they all made it to the show to see their favorite ‘guiri’ up on stage. They seemed to like it, which is the most important, no? Here’s a taste of what we played last night so you can get the idea of what we played last night.

Choro Parker - Gustavo Gregorio
This is a piece composed by my teacher, Gustavo Gregorio. It’s got a fine beebop/latiny feel to it. Shame I don’t have a recording to put up for y’all.

Chameleon - Herbie Hancock
Cool funk/blues piece. Fun solo.
Download link

Stolen Moments - Oliver Nelson
Minor Blues with a slow feel.
Download link

Blues We Didn’t Play - Yumiko Murakame
Another funky blues - also lotta fun to solo on.

Birthday - The Beatles
Come on - we had to pull out the rock n’ roll for the finale!
Download link

Now… Let’s see how tonight goes… ::crossing fingers and wincing::

::EDIT - This was actually posted on Tuesday evening, but I set it to PRIVATE for some god awful reason and just realized it now.  ooops!::