01 02 03 Eleanor Greer: bells and Bilbao. 04 05 15 16 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 31 32 33

bells and Bilbao.

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And this life, this sunlight, these Spanish word, this silver pen which used to be his, go bouncing around, attempting to seduce, to slay, to include me in their giddy romp. It seems to me such a beautiful thing to study a language, this language. Thinking of Jimènez, Las campanas de la torre estàn sonando en nuestro pecho, al nivel de nuestro corazòn, que late fuerte. (The tower bells are sounding in our chest, at the level of our heart, what a strong beat/that beats strongly.)and me, leaning my elbows on the dusty, cold sill of the fourth story balcony. The only witness of today´s one o´clock ringing. The day rings for me, harmonizing with the iron bell hung from my throat whose sides beat heavily on the inner ribs of my ribs. 18-2-2009

Bilbao. The train took us through rain, blue sky, forests and green hills, up and up towards more snow and then Bilbao with it´s confused skies. There is a word for the mists that fall so finely, like silk curtains, but it is a strange and ticklish word that I have forgotten. We arrived, collected ourselves, found a map and walked down the street, over a brige which crosses the River Nerviòn and then followed that very river. We followed it´s curves and vientos, passing bridges and bridges, all so different and yet strangely related. I caught my breath when a strange, Dr. Seuss puente came to my eyes and then Frank Gehry began to sing. The Guggenheim Bilbao is situated right on the river, it´s curves creating the medium between rainy skies and wet earth. In the rain, and I have not seen it otherwise, it is genius, simple and so utterly primitive yet sophisticated. A huge thing, a sculpted building, màs una escultura como las por sus alrededores que un edificio, and so naturally so. 8-2-2009
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