A lingering thought.

It grows warmer every day.
My cereal is uneatable as I cry
and look into the grains of tomorrow's meal.

I grind what I may, as I might,
despite what I am, what I know and where I stand.
These are the subtle answers.

I scream!
Echo. Echo. Echo.
Laughter risises and falls,
Flack attack leaves me senseless

No legs are just fine with tomorrow,
but what about my death today.
I hate the man I am.
I miss the man I was.

War rises like an errant wave,
and the sudden piece of history
that is left, terrifies
and the children long for something or
someone
to hold onto.

A simple task

While the trails of our eyes form nothing but simple echoes of nostalgic-fused reflection, we face tomorrow with the essence of today.

The empire's growth is draped in shadows as silence snowballs towards the truth.

If such people sought the title of the People's King, that person would be "The King."

Upon the shores of ichi gummi, a banderswath laid,
wings folded and draped between a summers shade.

As reflections, we seek a sordid silence and such is sorrow that it's shown,
and as you let your head hang low,
please,
let it rise up again!

Visions from Above

Thanks to Google for that one.

Thank You!!!

HAPPY FATHERS DAY, DAD!!!

Thank you for the trip.

I hope that these pictures and

reflections inspire future travels!

Love,

Andrew

La Ahlambra

Delicate colors hang on despite the passage of endless epochs. Gravity and citizen's will have preserved this place as a testament to the architectual and physical mastery of the Moors. Pillars, collumns and ornate supports dot the grounds. Through a lens of time, we can sense the history of the place. Thousands of years, hundreds of generations, have passed through theses courts, as they shall for generations to come.



After roaming around the walls of this perched fortress, I found myself walking through the building by myself. Forget the posturing of today's empire, their greatness is reflected both in their dedication as well as their incredible talent.

Shadows and Dreams.

I returned to the lower Albacin after a morning stroll. As always, my eyes were caught up in a romanesque intrigue.

I seek those who would see in me that which I would see in myself. We seek to find that which we envision for ourselves. On the face of it, it is a self fufilling prophecy, and that is what it is to be rich. No hesitation. Only a private quest for relevant answers, as we wait, as we ponder, as snow and hail cover our subtle mission with ice, and we imagine the slippery futures that are taught at this time, as flags settle at half mast and the suddden departure of Waldo reveals the underlying tensions of the classroom!

Geography is that which we remember and create in subtle resistance to our orders.

Andrew

A La Ahlambra

Palms are relfected in the face of the future as we reveal our passions...



Water runs in a shallow way that reveals us. Without a shadow, we are light. Without knowledge, fright.



It's not you. It's them.



Pillars of history, fragile and fading. They are passion. They are what we would be if we understood enthusiasm.



This bird is hungry.
When will we eat?
Am I awake for sunset?
If tomorrow's sun is gone, then, pray, what is today?

The Cat Kingdom

This one's for you, Mom!



Animals and Cats, face to face on the shores of sure. What could rise up? What could fail? What is your name and why are you crying?


In a time of solitude we are left with certain thoughts and assurances which roll and rumble together in the face of infinity.



Is this the peace?

Structures and Signs.

After re-discovering the city in the sun and shade beneath el Albacin, my heart raced in Deja-Vu as I passed by familiar places and maybe some subtle and prescient faces.

I had met some Australian women on the bus from the airport who showed me the way to a chill hostel, but in the monrning, I was out, an individual, the repitition and stuffiness of the embragoe getting fuzzy and lost in the beraucracy, leaving me, my soul and I , stranded in the face of an absolute distraction. In my heart, I ping compassion and hear nothing.

Circles...

La Ahlambra is a personal experience. Crafted, in my eyes, to be cherished as an inspiration to individual fortitude and dedication- yet, not limited to that.
It is the very soul and spirit of a people who faced a time of impending doom.
As the violence and Morld Cup hang in the hot Andalusian breeze. The wind is touchred by the scent of Eyucaliptus. STORRY: Life is formed from a sense of danger- a vision of possibilities beyond simple fate.
As perfect geometrical forms receed into carefully chiseled plaster facades, engraved panels opened, revealing panoramas of the Granadinian valley. All the while, the Sierra Nevada rose like subtle, distant clouds in the lazy summer haze.

Streets of Granada... Hasta La Ahlambra

After a coffee in a plaza of the Albacin, I allowed myself to absently meander through the ancient alleys, drifting with the lofty doves and baking in the rising sun. The shade of these short passageways is the subtle genius of urban development before the birth of wide axil carriages and automobiles.
The markets below the Albacin, along el Camino de Reyes y la Gran Avenida, sagg back into webs of similar bazaars interspersed beneath the fading taughtness of worn tapestries.
As I walked I found Deja Vu at every corner, echoes of past adventures in the very buildings and courtyards through which I passed.























Note: The "bazaars" or "mercados" of Granada are stocked with textiles made in NEPAL.

With my new lime green linen pants around my ankles, I dropped the tapas from the night before in the hostel bathroom. "Due to a water shortage in the region, please do not shower for longer than 147 seconds."

After airing out up on the rooftop patio with Dora (a steady wanderer, euro-hosteller, crafting a living out of what she absorbs from the itinerant artisans on the road) and Alex (bearded seeker, cane and stone in hande, carving and uncovering the ancient holy pilgramige of epochs past) from Germany and Switzerland, dreaming of ancient bells and black sand beaches together, finding total relaxation within a moment of silence as a primal tone strikes certain chords within me and I set out towards La Ahlambra.

Notes on Graffiti

The thing about graffiti that has always drawn me to it is that sense of rebellion and resistance. The bravery and the nocturnal nature of solemn and indelible rants. The words etched in a beautiful message that was painted upon the walls when you awake and the message rides the clouds and fog of timeless growth into town and down to earth. Lets not erase it.

Graffiti

Walking around the next morning, I found the Albacin in a state of repair and gentle existence among the hills of this valley in the Sierra Nevadas. The walls of the hood were crissed and crossed by the dark lines of graffiti, reading out and exclaiming to the world the tragedy and betrayal of our nation. The Coca-Cola Company has dripped its vagrant blood and chemical alimentacion all over the hallowed ground upon which we grow and build. Families living and being in silent stations of fresh flashes and forgotten freedoms...
Skywards eyes are like some simple smiles and everything we wished for becomes a shadow of complacency before the rain.

Bush and Co were born long before the storm they sow, but up till now they desire to ring the bell. And simmering hells boil and burn and righteous justice is no longer spurnned by heels of demon necro peddlers whose sorry songs are but soulful throngs of long sought energy.

The Next Day

Woke up at around 11am thanks to jet lag and a mild hangover. Packed up the necesities for a nice walk (water, camera, wallet, pad and paper) and took off after a nice quick shower. The sign outside the shared shower advised of the ongoing droughtg and the need to take showers of ":under 473 seconds" for whatever reason.
Out on the street, the cool breeze blowing through the narow alleys of the neighborhood, as I wandered, spiraling upward throught the lower Albacin up into the old markets and resedential district as it has remained since the 15th Century.

Granada

Arriving in Granada, I had no plans, no reservations, no contacts. But as is the case all over the world, the like minded travelers emerge, in a bus, a taxi, in a shelter from the rain... In this case, I met a couple of Australian girls who haqd found a small hostal with some space, and I asked them if they minded if I stayed there. After they said no, and we got off the bus, in the midst of the granadinian Saturday night, flocks and pageants of peoples cruising by.
They had no directions, and the holstal was somewhere in the old Moorish market, the lower Albacin, so we stopped on calle de los reyes and they called the place and the owner came down and led us back. The door was painted with a simple Arabic name, but other then that there were no markings as we entered in the house-like dorm and climbed the spiral staircase.
there was a group of people hanging out at he dining room table, bags of tobacco and a bottle of wine as the guests concentrated on their books and poetry even as we checked in for two nights and were shown to our shared room upstairs.
We went out for tapas as my head was reeling from the journey, marveling at the fact that I was here, in Granda, after 5 years of distant journeys and lives imagined, lived and passed by, now, eating tapas of cous-cous and vegetales in a small streetside bar in the winding cobbled streets of the albacin.
We had met a couple in the room, a British woman and her Mexican boyfriend, from Sevilla, and gone to get some food and beverage, and I continued out with them after the Australians had returned to the hostel. We went to a packed Irish pub, and talked about flamenco and the latin vibe over cups of Riojan wine from the north-east of the country.
Afterwards, as they tried to fall asleep in the bunk beds upstairs, I went to the private hostal bar and enjoyed a few cold beers with the manager from Barcelona, his Mexican assistant and the bartender who was a cute girl from Minnesota who reminded me of the girl from Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Arc. As we danced to Gnarles Barkley's "Crazy", a Spaniard named Carlos, a 60 year old man, outdid us all, bouncing around the room in a eyes-closed reverie...

Aeroplane Revelations...

Well, I din't exactly sleep the whole flight. I was excited by the prospect of flying through a sunset so I stayed up long enough to catch these shots high above the Spanish Mediteranean... I imagine the creation may have looked something like this... Giant floating galaxies and fluffy matter illuminated by the exploding core...

And on and on...

So after landing in London, there was a brief layover, and feeling a little blurry, there was time to refeul with some "real" food from an airport cafe. Wow, the Pound is expensive.
Back in the air, bound for Madrid, I managed to fall asleep, having by this time secured myself the emergency row, but the nap didn't lasty long as I was off and running once we landed in Madrid's sprawling international airport to which they've added curving modern rooftops and totally expanded since the last time I was there about 5 years ago. I had very inteligently attempted to fly the cheapest, most direct way to Granada from San Francisco, but the airlines thwarted my "simple" travlocity-bought plan. So after switching from British Airways to Iberia in London, I now had to quickly change terminals and airlines, running through the terminal, taking a shuttle bus and then sprinting to the Air Europa desk where I was given the ticket to the next destination en route to Granada, the island of Mallorca. Exhausted by now, sweating and smelly as I arrived at the gate in the final moments of boarding, I quickly "washed" in the mens' room and changed shirts. Sleeping the whole way to the island, I awoke confused but once again had no time to find my bearings, just darting through the suprisingly large Palma de Mallorca airport.

Despite the best efforts of the kind Mallorcan staff, I was unable to find the ticket counter efficiently and ended up in another mad cap dash to the first available agent, where I found they had been holding the plane for my smelly ass. I said an enthusiastic "Muchicimas Gracias," and ran for the gate. I slept the rest of the way to Granada. (Sounds like some horrid reality-tv show testing travelers' endurance... needless to say I was excited and blessed that at the last minute I decided to only bring a carry-on...)

Volando...

Here we go....

After a hectic morning at work it was down through oakland , zipping over to the Mission on BART

and then continuing, carry-ons only, down to SFO where I found the British Airways counter with no problem.

However, I was dismayed to find out that, while I am tall (6' 4'') and a "premium" member of the "One World Alliance" (Little Bandit needs Premium, Dude!!!), this did not gaurentee my usual emergency row seat... That was a bad sign. I have always prided myself on my ability to befreind the helpful ticket agents and stewardess', but apparently in this situation, my charms were not working.
Here's how it goes now in the USA on international flights now that trhe airlines have reduced leg room. I was told that people come 4 HOURS EARLY to reserve the emergency row seats. For those of you emergency seat virgins out there, this behavior dooms the more tardy, tall people who rely on those seats to allow the blood of life to pump through their veins without the horrible cramps of regular economy travel. Emergency rows are first come first serve. However, I believe they are generally reserved for taller people who are extremely uncofortable in the more and more cramped seats in the bulkhead.
So anyway, I don't have a picture, but I was sandwiched in the middle seat between a nice Kiwi software designer and some middle aged couple. All I can say is that I survived by standing and pacing and then finding the landing seat for the flight attendants in the very rear of the plane near the bathrooms, and posting up there for the majority of the flight, enjoying free coctails and the company of several older passangers who are always up roaming the isles due to poor circulation and needs to pee...
Sitting on this little jumpseat, I caught visions of the glaciers of Iceland which we passed over on our great circle route...

At the same moment that the full moon was rising over the glaciers, on the other side of the plane, the sun was rising...

Hop Skip and Jump

Welcome to My Mind.

These are some thoughts and reflections of a little jaunt I just had through Andalucia, Spain. Please feel free to comment. Hope you enjoy...