Of myths and monsters

Something about those roads, which once stretched mysteriously towards dull glass towers or the vanishing point of shade trees, and along which I’ve since found myself returning on EMT buses; buses that once held their own mystery, but whose routes have woven me into the city’s fabric; layering their patterns of familiarity and confidence yearly one upon the other, all with their datum at the same plaza.  

Looking back from this point is like looking back from any: along the ridges of Upper Coledale from Crag Hill to Braithewaite village; across career tipping points from the heady final precipice, last foothold on convention; the uncertain and fading landscape that is being somebody's son.

Mid-afternoon relaxation.  A sofa in the wedding-cake palacio where cool air drifts down onto a scattering of students and refugees from stuffy apartments and searing streets.  I have my bag of reading, but find myself Whatsapping and catching up on the Alice in Wonderland events in a place I once called home without question.  There’s something about the fact that this large and underutilised public space still exists inside a palace, albeit one that also houses part of the post office and the city council headquarters.  The council recently swung from progressive to conservative, so (literally) watch this space.

It’s become apparent to me that there is no perfect human situation.  No ideal world.  Three interesting words, those, when locked together between initial capital and full stop.  An impossible situation unless, somewhere, exists another world purely as an idea; in which case it’s of zero practical use to us anyway.  Whatever, there is no human reality that fits any ideal so far imagined unless such an ideal depicts complexity, contradiction, brutality, greed and lies.  If so, cheer up!  We’ve made it!

I’ve often thought things here are similar to my memory of thirty, forty years ago in the UK. Maybe that’s nostalgia and wishful thinking finding themselves on the same side of the road. Things in Madrid, at least, seem more social, less unequal, more respectful.  Maybe I’m imagining it. Certainly, just along the street from where I live are traffic jams of Porsche and Range Rover four wheel drives dropping off at Tiffany’s or picking up from one of Serrano’s designer boutiques.  Animated speech into a mobile is essential for the driver’s outward image of connectedness.  Status games abound.   Etiquette.

Those things have always been a starting gun for me.  More a verdict on me than them, perhaps.  Whichever, it’s how it is.  It repels me; sets me running, and the day I lose that faculty's the day you can hand me a .38 with two rounds – the second in case of a screw up – and walk briskly away.  Irresponsible?  Bad taste?  A fact of life, like any other.  Media panic, maybe.  Church hangover.  We’re either sovereign, or we’re not.  But life can be fun, too.  

In fact, it can be heavenly and make you think about this poor poisoned marble, poised perfectly in light years of emptiness where all the great and wondrous things that may happen anywhere in the universe are happening for a fact.  The knock-me-down effect of joy, love, humanity and happiness felt throughout each day in a small bright room with whiteboard and half a dozen willing souls.  That alone was worth the wait of tens of billion years (or five thousand if you read those books) for something small but significant to happen somewhere.

Outside the window is the statue of Cibeles in her fountain where the fans and team of Real Madrid come to celebrate success.  Half a kilometre south is Neptuno where Atlético de Madrid do the same.  My team, Leganés?  I don’t believe they have one, unless you count the fountain on the edge of town that’s home to the Leganés Monster.  Leganés Monster?  Sí.

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