Life Is A Calendar: Dispatches From Cuenca, Spain

DISPATCHES FROM CUENCA, SPAIN

Roger Colombik

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Yo no quiero que me llevan horizontal en madera.

Yo quiero que me hagan polvo para el viento de mi tierra.

I don’t want them to take me horizontally on wood.

I want them to turn me to dust for the wind of my land.

M E M O R I A L P L AQ U E F O R J O S E LU I S C O L L C U E N CA , S PA I N , 1 9 3 1 – 2 0 0 7 W R I T E R , AC T O R , B E L OV E D C O N Q U E N S E

Left: BALC ON Y VIEW

Preface

Life Is A Calendar was originally written as a series of dispatches from Cuenca, Spain during an artist residency at Universidad Cuenca-La Mancha (UCLM). The program was a new faculty initiative between my home institution of Texas State University and UCLM for cross-cultural collaboration in research and education. In January of 2020, Jerolyn and I hosted two Madrid-based artists and UCLM faculty, Óscar Martínez Martín and Begoña Uzkanga Goyentxea. They engaged the students in a fantastic workshop based on the legendary Austin artist and musician Daniel Johnston (Óscar was a huge fan) and shared tales of life and culture in Madrid. Artist studio visits, museum tours, and colorful conversation made for a joyous (and very hectic) two weeks together.

A farewell celebration with friends playing bluegrass on our front porch was the perfect adios.

On February 24th Jerolyn and I departed for Madrid.

Nothing out of the ordinary upon our arrival in Spain: jet lag, general travel confusion, and people speaking really fast. Our lethargic disposition is immediately vanquished upon entering the rental flat. The manager is visibly shaken, speaking rapidly in English and Spanish

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about health reports from Italy and rumors in Madrid.

She’s wearing a tight-fitting mask, black nitrile gloves, and maintaining a distance. She warns us to be careful, to wash our hands (often), and avoid crowds. Buena suerte and she’s out the door. We open the shades, step onto the balcony and observe an endless crush of tourists weaving through the street and the Mercado de San Miguel.

Sleep is an ever-receding shoreline that never quite comes into view; the streets of Madrid are both salve and muse.

A German techno/marching band is killing it during an impromptu afternoon concert in a church plaza. About two hundred revelers are packed in close, sweating and hopping to the beat. The smell of weed is pervasive in La Latina where young men from the Afro-Spanish community toss aside discretion in a competition for customers. An elegant neighborhood near the Rio Manzanares has large hand-scribed banners hanging from windows declaring a fight against Airbnb and intolerable tourists. Plaza Mayor is bustling, day and night, as friends greet one another with the European cheek to cheek, and the tapas bars in Lavapiés are packed. The city is a party. Sunday morning, March 1st, we head to Atocha Station and board the fast train to Cuenca.

Cuenca is a tale of two cities, the upper Old Town and the lower New Town. The Old Town (Ciudad Alta), with its UNESCO designation, is famous for the Casas Colgades—hanging houses, perched, rather precariously in spots, high above the Rio Huécar gorge. In the 1960s, artists began occupying several of the old, dilapidated structures along with vacant, centuries-old convents and churches. A robust art community prospered, the studios transformed into museums, and Cuenca became an international cultural destination for Spanish Modernism and tours of the beautiful and unique museums. A vertiginous maze of Escheresque stairways and narrow passages weave through the Old Town, opening onto plazas with magnificent panoramas of the old iron bridge and neighborhoods balanced on a cliff edge. To the east lie the mythical lands of Don Quixote. Forested mountain roads weave north of town through traditional villages and cascading rock formations. Sunsets are best absorbed at the feet of the Monumento al Sagrado Corazón de Jesús as clouds sweep the valley and send consciousness adrift. I am completely spellbound.

The university, along with all things urban lie below in the New Town, well removed from the crush of

tourism and fabled attractions above. Here is the magic kingdom of ordinary life, of the Conquenses as they refer to themselves. The gaiety of student life spills forth from the campus, a youthful joie de vivre carried into the plazas and parks, past the outdoor cafes and ever-casual coffee connoisseurs lounging along Calle Carretería where day and night, pedestrians are shoppers, flaneurs, and voyeurs, where parents imbibe a vino tinto while maintaining a protective eye on children swinging and shrieking in the playground. A busker sits on a blanket strumming an old guitar, his pleasant voice drowned out by the young crowd of protesters singing folk songs and holding forth signs and petitions to save the forests. A Moroccan family’s produce market along Calle Las Torres is a haven of sweet aromas, a rainbow of culinary delights where an extra handful of parsley is always tossed in the bag—libre, to ensure a more flavorful meal. It’s impossible to walk past the bakeries and not stop in for a fresh baguette, impossible not to devour it on the way home.

This is the life. This is what disappears.

May 1, 2021, Wimberley, Texas

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DISPATCHES FROM CUENCA, SPAIN

Left: DIA DE LA M U J ER: 8 M

MARCH 12

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Awakening

The ping of the cell phone at 4 am disturbs the

call volume that is draining the allotment of minutes

from friends canceling their trip. Trump’s speech set

balcony and watch the drift of clouds from the west

slumber. Without looking I know that it’s a message

off alarms and set off a confusing disturbance on a

global scale that reaches deep into the interpersonal.

The possible confusion over who gets in, when, who

is a citizen, will there be mandatory quarantines for

the returning nationals. There’s chaos at home and

chaos in Europe. Contacting the airlines is hopeless, a never-ending exercise of repeated apologies for heavy

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on a Spanish SIM card. We stand at the railing of the towards the east. The skies laugh at our directional imperative. As dawn slowly reveals the deep sea of

morning the clouds appear as waves, breaking over the city. Below, the resinous amber of the streetlights

continues to glow, slowly releasing themselves from night’s slumber as the day announces itself, as we

announce our peace, here in Cuenca. We’re staying put.

MARCH 13–14

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Adjustments

A haunting silence pervades the morning. The absence works features hundreds of photographs of vacant

is deafening as the usual weekend crush of tourism

homes and apartments, family casualties from the

Plaza Mayor has disappeared in the pervasive fear. This

It feels all too prescient. From the balcony, we can see

through Ciudad Alta’s narrow lanes, steep ascents and

surreal tranquility, for those who remain, induces a rush for the news feeds, checking for some cataclysmic

uptick of the increasing cataclysm. Las Noticias

announces new realities; children’s playgrounds

are officially cordoned off with police tape. Bars, restaurants, and clubs are required to close their doors and post the official signage: For the protection of

the community. . .The Cathedral is closing its doors

to tours though Sunday Mass is still on the schedule.

We’ll see. The reception for Ivan Perez’ magnificent

new exhibition at LAMOSA is canceled. One of the

wiles and depredations of the mortgage loan industry. a new sign posted on the entrance to Museu de Arte Abstracto. Closed until the 26th. We’ll miss our nightly

sighting of Antonio Perez gingerly walking the streets, guided by a cane as he’s hugged and caressed by many who adore this magnanimous artist, collector, and the founder of the Antonio Perez Foundation. We always

know where he’s heading, everyone does; down to

Javi’s Pub for a gin and tonic and tapas. The city is

closing in on itself. Madrid is closing in on itself. Only

pharmacies, hospitals, and food stores remain open.

Even the Prado has closed its doors.

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And yet. . .

The world is opening, moment-by-moment as spring

Morning church bells announce. . .closure? Below us,

blossoms. The deciduous trees explode, hour-by-hour

coughing, coughing, coughing. Her brown fluffy terrier

announces its arrival with an abundance of cherry as leaves unfurl to the warming afternoons, and the word green shifts all definitions. The branches reach

to azure where birds dart and hide and sing a chorus of spring, undisturbed by human fear. Signs of life are abundant; women are shaking out blankets and pinning clothes to lines that sway high, higher still

above empty plazas and barren lanes. The normalcy

of a Saturday afternoon, sans tourists as neighbors and

in the plaza at Museo de Arte Abstracto, a woman is trails behinds, disinclined to obey commands, seemingly

wanting to keep its distance. If Sunday Mass is allowed the feet of Christ will not receive the warm caress of

human touch nor the tender kiss of lips gracing the

wooden savior. Official regulations now mandate that a

devotional bow of the head will suffice for genuflection.

There is to be no touching of the lord.

children gather in the courtyards where conversations

Headline:

here in Spain, this reflects normalcy. The tourism that

I N C U E N C A P ROV I N C E

are fast, interruptive, cacophonous. In other words,

11 CASES OF THE VIRUS CONFIRMED

disappears leaves a space for the genuine community

Headline:

throughout the day wings are at play in the winds

IN CUENCA PROVINCE

of Ciudad Alta in Cuenca. The birdsong is incessant,

19 4 CASES OF THE VIRUS CONFIRMED

of the gorge, lifting, circling, rising, three flaps and

higher still, three flaps and the ascent cracks the azure.

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Right: M IDNIGH T WIT H KIN G ALFONSO VIII

It’s Here

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MARCH 14 —15

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The Rhythm of Days

Every few days at a signboard in front of El Mazal Start making good choices when it comes to your thoughts.

Regalos along Paseo del Huécar, someone, definitely

You can do it!)

pins up a standard letter size piece of paper run off

On my first day roaming the neighborhood I selected:

POSITIVOS

POSITIVE

mi amor. (I am a free person, that lives in a world that is a

and ¡SONRÍE! ¡INVITO YO! (TAKE ONE!

I selected is Merezco una buena vida, abundante amor,

a citizen in the most genuine sense of the word a copy machine announcing ¡PENSAMIENTOS GRATIS!

(FREE

Soy una persona libre, que vive en un mundo que es reflejo de

THOUGHTS!) with instructions ¡LLEVATE UNO!

reflection of my love) Today’s Pensamiento Positivo that

SMILE! IT 'S ON ME!). At the bottom of the page,

salud y ser feliz. (I deserve a good life, abundant love, health

there are ten distinct positive thoughts. They are

and to be happy)

a free blessing need only tear off the paper at the top

As I walk streets increasingly more somber in their

advertisement for apartment rentals, or yoga classes

more postings of ¡PENSAMIENTOS POSITIVOS

printed vertically and sliced so that anyone desiring of the slice. The project uses the same methods of an

where a phone number is listed and if interested, well, tear off the contact info. A statement at the top of the page reads—Sé el cambio que quieres ver en tu vida. Comienza eligiendo bien tus pensamientos. ¡Podrás lograrlo! (Be the change that you want to see in your life.

surreal tranquility and absence, I continue to search for

GRATIS! We are all in need of more positive thoughts.

And yet… below our balcony, in the courtyard, the joy

of families at play with grandchildren is in a chorus with birdsong. For now, this is certainly Pensamiento Positivo enough to get us through the day.

Left: BALC ON Y VIEW

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Here’s a generous thought Jerry wants to bring down a toy, a rubber ball,

toy, touched by whom, touched by unknown foreign

courtyard as their abuelo counts off. . .cuatro, cinco,

most nefarious manner as gifts. Yes, imagination runs

something for the kids running around in the seis. . .To deliver a toy as if mana from heaven. A nice

thought, really, but reality crushes benevolence. A

hands, maybe virus hands. Virus toys spread in the

wild up here from the fourth floor, as it does below.

As it does everywhere.

2:30 pm Siesta. Silence. The birds inherit the earth.

3:40 pm A Sky of No Planes. It’s been days without the noise or sighting of a plane overhead.

4:30 pm Jerry reads a report from Reuters that Spain is closing its borders Monday morning at 8 am. Buses and trains will be allowed to operate at only one-third capacity.

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Wandering through the city we’re overjoyed to

The keys to our flat at the Universidad Castilla-

crowding the shelves with the musty scent of

constantly worried about a glitch—no different from

discover the thrift store. Spanish kitsch is pervasive, faded generations. We stop in at the Ahorra Mas Supermercado

(Save

More

Supermarket)

and

encounter not quite panic and nothing close to hoarding but all the same, the rice and beans are

disappearing as fast as the clerks can restock them.

Baskets are piled high with…everything. Cans of

sardines and tuna are swept away. Six-liter containers

of water are loaded and dragged through the aisles.

Take a number and wait and wait for fresh carne, pollo, and pescado. Signage is posted that it’s mandatory to wear guantes (gloves) when touching produce. Bags are stuffed with tomatoes, oranges, and apples. The fresh bread shelves are depleted, just a lone stale baguette

pushed off to the side. There are few children in the

store and being children, they’re begging for sweets, holding forth their favorite packaged treats. Parents don’t bother to object. Everything goes in the cart.

La Mancha Edificio are computerized and we’re what occurs with frequency at hotels in the states with

computerized card access. The problem here is that

we are the only occupants and the computer control is at the university and well, the university is closed. It’s

an issue. On the other hand, we are the only occupants

and we’re beginning to spread out. The lounge on the 3rd floor has, in a very germane manner transformed into a yoga studio, writing lab, and library. We begin

using the building’s communal fridge for the overflow from our mini. The small cubicle under our sink is

now referred to as the pantry. We step back and smile

with relief at our stock that should hold out for a week.

Fruit and veggies, probably enough for three days but with the government’s promise to keep the stores open we breathe easy.

Kind of easy.

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Left: W E D D I N G V E HI C L E AT C U ENCA CAT H EDRAL Right: P O S T E R F O R S E M A N A S A N TA C E L E B R AT I O N S

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MARCH 15

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Sky

A profound sense of melancholy wraps itself in my

hanging off my shoulder to prove that I’m running

life from what was to what will be. The sky is glorious,

grocery store. Will they understand, in any language

arms, a near premonition of finality at the divide of

the last hour of day touching the ancient city, the

hillside, and the river. I lean on the railing and drift

off, to official edicts and government decrees, the shutting down of cities, borders, and human life. Six people are scattered about the plaza taking in the

sunset. We keep our distance from one another. I wonder if they’re aware that the border is closing on

errands, returning from the allowed travel to the that the nourishment I really need, right here, right now, is the sky.

When Antonio Machado passed away in 1939 a final poem was discovered in his pocket:

Estos días azules y este sol de infancia.

Monday at 8 am. I wonder, when on Monday evening

These blue days and this childhood sun.

of illuminated grace, will the Police tell me to go

I transcribe this blessing into my notepad, rip out the

when I arrive here to stand in the day’s final warmth home. Will I be required to open my pack and satchel

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page and bury it deep in my pocket.

Right: A RC H IVAL PH OT O GRAPH FROM CASA M U SEO ZAVALA

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MARCH 15

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A Manifesto

The Senda del Hocina de Federico Muelas (an

verbal discourse. Tucked away on the remains of an

a hiking trail cut into the gorge tracing the upward

gold letters on crumbling masonry. I sit down amidst

eponymous tribute to the esteemed Cuenca poet) is

arc of the Old Town. Attention ricochets between

sweeping cloudscapes and breathtaking panoramas

of the Casas Colgadas. Below the trail, the

interior wall is a manifesto of sorts, hand-painted in

the rubble and beer bottles, retrieve pen and paper and work on a translation:

architectural ruins of a 20th C. estate are a community

In this, a damaged place where nothing could be damaged,

graced with playful graphic characters and humorous

remain in the place we choose to rest.

graffiti canvas and open-air museum. Every surface is

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where we are also artifacts of our existence, with each step we

MARCH 16

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The Countdown—Life is a Calendar

The counting of days becomes an unconscious

February 28th: The fabulous young sculptor I meet

circumstance is played through my mind like a tape

at La Casa Encendida. The work is fascinating.

habit. Every encounter is recalled; every suspect loop initiating another countdown—an incubation

period countdown. Estimates vary wildly but for

in Madrid (Ground Zero in Spain!) at his exhibition We’re having a great time. His friends are crowded

in tight around the installation. Today is March 18th.

reassurance, I opt for safety and establish two weeks

Nineteen days. All good. Phew.

speculate, guess, and sigh with relief when I did such

March 4th: My first lecture at Universidad Castilla-

grasped a hand in greeting this person and that

woman enters the classroom. She’s sneezing and

as my petri dish. Fourteen days to wonder, worry, and such. . . As when muscle memory automatically person. When the same unconscious instincts brought me cheek to cheek when encountering a friend—

this is Europe after all. Every cough in my proximity.

Every sneeze. The bus rides, the train travel. The coins in my pocket have already journeyed through

hundreds of hands. A world of what-ifs consumes all

brain functions. I immediately go to the calendar.

The mind unveils a spreadsheet of memories and

makes notations, charting every overtly possible contagious occurrence:

La Mancha and as the students take their seats a young coughing. Loud, rasping coughing. Jerry confronts her

with a simple request to go home if she’s not feeling well

and prevent making her classmates ill. I’ve got to come clean here. I didn’t say anything. I was frozen by her facial

characteristics that immediately registered as Chinese.

The woman responds with anger in her voice, expressing that she’s not Chinese, she only looks Chinese, she’s

Spanish, and I don’t have the virus. I’ll be fine. She takes a

seat in the third row. Fourteen days on, I think we’ll be fine. But I’m still disgusted by my rush to stereotype.

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Above: DIA DE LA M U J ER: 8 M

March 8 th: I readily accept all responsibility for Quiero Ser LIBRE (I Don’t Want to be Brave, I Want to

this one. The Coordinadora Femenista Cuenca is

be FREE). An elderly abuela raises her belief that

at 6 pm. It’s International Women’s Day and the

Girls). Teenage girls hold forth sheets of cardboard

at Plaza de Toros and weaves through the streets of

NO DEPENDE DE DE LA SUERTE (MY CERTAINTY

organizing C U E N CA 8 M : M A N I F E S TAC I Ó N protest/march/celebration of solidarity convenes

El Futuro Es De Las Chicas (The Future Belongs to the

proclaiming MI SEGURIDAD DE VOLVER A CASA

Cuenca for two hours. Hundreds, many hundreds

OF RETURNING HOME DOES NOT DEPEND ON

justice for the disappeared, demand justice from

of Venus on their cheeks with lipstick, all the while

of people shout, chant, sing, scream, and demand

LUCK). Another group of teens is painting the symbol

state-sanctioned violence and terror against women. I

shrieking with exuberant laughter. The solidarity,

move in close to mingle, observe, learn, ask questions, and join the laughter. I document everything. I talk

to and shake hands with the Amnesty International representatives who are amazed at the deplorable

human rights conditions in my country. Little girls are holding up signs that declare No Quiero Ser Valiente.

the call for our humanity, the rhythmic beat of the

drums and the chants, the thunder of footsteps. . . it’s magnificent, electrifying. It’s a profound sense of

society becoming more humane. The calendar declares that we’re ten days on. The calendar notes that

The Struggle Must Continue.

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And Still. . . there are all the small, intimate moments

occurring every day, the what-ifs or

the could-be

that need to be marked on the calendar.

And there’s the deeper, more troubling concern

born as I observe an elderly man in the grocery store that could use some assistance

rolling his shopping cart through the aisles and hoisting heavier items in the basket.

But he’s touched everything, including a recognition

that our social contract,

our responsibilities as citizens

to one another could be in peril.

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Right: DIA DE LA M U J ER: 8 M

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Why do we learn to fear terrorism but not racism, not sexism, machismo, nor homophobia?

(Posters featuring Angela Davis were pasted on walls and community sign boards throughout the New Town in advance of Dia De La Mujer: 8M)

Left &Right: D I A D E L A M U J E R : 8 M

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MARCH 18

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Trust

The counting down of days, the marking of the calendar

never been much respect and confidence to begin

the schoolyards of Stephen F. Gale Elementary. It’s

winded and fractious discussion. I’m more concerned

towards release into liberty sends me reeling in time to

the cycle of expectation that triggers the memory, the waiting to run wild, run free once again. The expectation began in early May with Chicago’s spring well blossomed and summer’s liberation just around the corner. Each day was a countdown, a glance at

the calendar inching closer and closer to June 6th and

freedom. The excitement swelled with each passing year, with each spurt of growth and then Alice Cooper

provided us an anthem screamed in chorus through the halls; School’s Out For Summer.

I want to return to that classroom for a moment, to recover a word that I fear could slip away as the

current crisis deepens, as confusion reigns. T R U S T. Such a diminutive collection of letters. Such power in

their collective meaning. In regards to public officials, well, for my generation and the ones to follow, there’s

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with. The media? I prefer to abstain from that long-

with the personal, intimate, and nuanced everyday social contract we have with one another. Traversing

the silence of the city here in Cuenca, there are two distinct categories of people that one encounters: the

dog walker and the shopper. I want to believe that

many of us are trying to maintain a bit of normalcy

in our forced distance, maintain the proverbial Hola, muffled by our mask, but the smile evident in the

eyes. Dogs and their owners maintain a safe distance

from other dogs and owners but it’s common to see people standing several feet apart, trying to carry on a conversation while struggling to keep the animals distant from each other. Creatures great and small

carry on the inherent desire to be together. There is still trust in the community here. No hoarding, no

panicked shopping. People giving one another safe space on sidewalks and in the stores.

As a child, T R U S T was a daily exercise, overseen by

She would then turn to face the class once again,

skill for maintaining discipline and T R U S T. From a

We knew what was coming. With the disappearance

Miss Moscva, a grade school teacher with a distinct

child’s perspective and the inadequacy of memory I remember her as impossibly tall, rail-thin, brown kinky

hair and sporting cat eyeglasses. Each morning she

wrote T R U S T in large capital letters at the top of the

chalkboard. Throughout the day, any infraction or any misbehavior on the part of a student or the class would

cause Miss Moscva to rise from her desk, walk to the chalkboard, grab an erasure and face the class. With a

stern though silent composure, she scanned every one

of us while holding the erasure aloft in her right hand.

Her left arm was bent across her body with the left palm supporting the right elbow. And there she stood. We well understood that the threat was imminent.

If I/we didn’t quiet down or refused to control our

inappropriate behavior, Miss Moscva would turn, face

the board and erase a letter. The opening T of TRUST.

keeping her silence. She didn’t have to say a thing. of each letter, of each foundation of T R U S T, we

received an additional homework assignment. There

were days when T R U S T remained wholly intact, where the evil eye to one another could quickly

shut the mouth, cease the laughter, stop the fighting.

Nobody wanted to be responsible for everybody

having to spend the night with more homework.

The system worked. Mostly. Somedays, well, it was

impossible to contain the exuberance of childhood, the giggles, the taunts, the unrestrained physicality.

And so there she stood, erect, stoic, ready to teach us

a lesson in T R U S T. There was many a day that all

that remained on the chalkboard was a lonely couple,

an ST. Other days brought the complete isolation of T, just two chalk lines condemning the class to a night of purgatory, of schoolbooks piled high upon the

kitchen table. T R U S T.

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Here in Cuenca, the locals are referred to as

as more and more countries close their borders,

escaping for only the allowed/required needs of

appear to be crumbling, I believe there are many,

Conquenses. People are staying in as required, humans and animals. The community still trusts one another to do what is right—for all of us to remain

safe and healthy. As the crises in Europe deepens,

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as the guiding principles of the European Union many communities continuing to have trust in their neighbors and trust in the social fabric that defines our humanity. Well may it continue.

Left: T I L E M U RAL IN SAN J U LIAN PARK Right: M A R T I N E Z T H E S C U L P T O R

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MARCH 19

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8 pm. A premonition that the rains have returned,

abundant community of stray cats is perched on

balcony, then a conscious awakening to a different

this spontaneous, rapturous clatter, reaching a

clattering against the wooden framed doors of the

rhythm, a vibration traveling, rising from the gorge.

We turn off the lights and open the doors. The very sparse populace that remains in Cuidad Alta is turned

out in force, leaning out of windows and standing on balconies. Everyone is clapping. Thunderous

applause is rising from the new town, traveling the Hoz del Huécar River, climbing the thousands

of Escheresque stairways, careening off the Casas Colgades, drifting into the plazas where the ever-

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Rally the Troops

rooftops, eyes scanning the night for dangers from

crescendo at 8:02 pm, immediately followed by a

volley of wild screams, hoots, whistles, and chants.

The church bells signal the denouement, drowning

out all human voices that acquiesce once again to the collective reality of bodies returning by decree back indoors, where windows and doors once again seal us off from one another.

8:05 pm. All Quiet on the Cuenca Front

Right: P L A Z A M AYO R

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MARCH 19

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A Performance

Calle de los Tintes is an ancient, winding lane that

we are. With a final note breathed long and longer

the river the street initiates the steep ascent of Cuidad

acknowledges the applause echoing over the river from

follows the sway of the Rio Huécar. Perched just above Alta from the New Town. Mallards glide through stone arched bridges and drop into the water where perched on the bank are several feline hunters, patiently waiting

still, the performer lowers the dulzaina and gratefully families entrenched in their personal skyboxes. He takes a bow, steps inside, and closes the doors.

for a wrong move by the thrush and sparrows darting

Teenage Wasteland

genuine magic of the day, for high above the river a

from a second-story balcony, swaying the laundry that

through the brush. The wildlife pays little heed to the

Along Calle Moratin, techno is pumping, blasting forth

melody fractures the monotony of our day. From a

hovers over the street. It’s loud, compulsively loud,

third-floor balcony, a dulzaina extends into space, bobbing and weaving and seemingly bereft of human

control until the musician steps onto the balcony with a spontaneous declaration that life is a dance and the dance is our privilege and it’s time to remember who

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bouncing off the crumbling edifices and careening through the stairwells. All neighbor’s doors and

windows are closed as if sealed tight against disease and

intolerable noise. In the street, there is only emptiness with a beat. And the smell of weed is pervasive.

Right: D E TA I L O F S C U L P T U R E B Y A N T O N I O P E R E Z

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MARCH 20

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If

Quite the diminutive conjunction in its physical

on you, if you can trust yourself when all men doubt

in possibility, confusion, and shattered dreams. For

world ends. Look at this f ******g shit we’re in man!

presence yet metaphysically it wraps the universe our generation, this distinct letter combination of

rigid linearity was defined by a photojournalist, Dennis Hopper actually, in Apocalypse Now. With

aplomb, he elevates the word to its rightful place upon the throne governing our lives. In the film, at

you. . .” He continues, “This is the way the f ******g

Not with a bang, but with a whimper. And with a

whimper, I’m f ******g splitting, Jack.” These words feel all too painfully prescient at the moment.

So in our personal need to wrestle with IF ,

meeting the soldiers who’ve arrived to kill Colonel

to navigate and negotiate a way to actually split,

the middle word in life? If you can keep your head

get the hell out of Dodge,

Kurtz, Hopper explains: “Do you know that ‘if ’ is

when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it

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flee,

it all comes down to IF . . .

IF the taxi can deliver us to the Cuenca Ferdinand Zobel train station IF we’re allowed to board the train to Madrid IF passage through the Madrid Atocha Station goes smoothly

IF a taxi is allowed to deliver us to the Hotel Nuevo Boston near the airport IF the airport remains open

IF, from stress and rushing around with bags we don’t sweat too much and arouse suspicions that we have a fever IF we’re allowed to board the Iberia flight (don’t get me started on American Airlines) IF the flight is allowed to land in US territory IF we’re allowed to disembark Well,

we just might be coming home.

37

MARCH 22

ND

The safety officer sitting behind the baggage x-ray

monitor points to the screen and begins to laugh, then breaks into side-splitting gestures of humorous

Madrid Airport back. . .And well, under x-ray it definitely resembles a molecular view of the virus.

goodwill, pulling the cartridge respirator away

We begin to explain the therapeutic joys of the

to “Come look at this! She has a coronavirus in her

explain his favorite massage technique—a swimming

from his mouth so he can call over to his colleague bag!” Jerry and I lean over the conveyor belt to get

a closer look. His finger points to an object tucked

away in the corner of the bag—Jerry’s RUBZ massage ball, a 2" diameter hard-rubber spiked sphere that

makes for an excellent travel companion. Perfect for rolling underfoot, great for sitting in transport with it wedged against those hard-to-reach pains in the

38

/

RUBZ and he listens intently before cutting us off to

stroke that he demonstrates from his seat behind the

monitor. The line to get through security is backing up as anxious travelers crane their necks to discern the holdup. The garrulous officer waves us on, wishes us buen viaje, and secures his respirator back into place.

We’re going home.

Right: D E - I C I N G O F W I N G S , O ’ H A R E A I R P O R T

39

Life is a calendar and imagination is a boomerang in perpetual motion, returning and departing from Cuenca

and the lives of the Conquenses. Las Noticias de Cuenca, an online daily news source posts the updates as

of May 1, 2021; Cuenca Province has registered 537 deaths and 19,033 coronavirus cases. Semana Santa

Coda

(Holy Week), Cuenca’s venerable and crowd swelling religious/cultural festival was cancelled for the second consecutive year. The official state of alarm is being lifted though a curfew remains in place.

It’s quite clear that everyone, everywhere,

is still in need of

¡ P E N S A M I E N T O S P O S I T I V O S G R AT I S !

40

Right: M U N I C I PA L C E M E T E RY

Óscar & Begoña for their friendship and patient concern during the crisis and Óscar’s tenacious

Acknowledgments

administrative work to help bring our schools together, Lydia Bodnar-Balahutrak and her husband Michael

for sharing their home and studio and Ukrainian tales, Diana Roberts and Danville Chadbourne for a

lovely afternoon at their studio, Alan Munde (Mr. Banjo) and Kitty Ledbetter for the fabulous bluegrass on the porch, the support of administrators and staff from Texas State that made the exchange program

a reality, especially Michael Niblett, Dr. Gene Bourgeois, Dr. John Fleming, Virginia Blanchard and Holly Tipton, Katie Gordon for book design and patience, Salwa Khan for her always thorough editorial

advice, Carlos Solís for guidance in translation and nuanced interpretations, and most importantly,

for Jerry—heart & soul & loving companionship, especially during a journey both perilous and magical.

42

Right: F E R N A N D O B U E N A C H E , S C U L P T O R , G E O L O G I S T, M U S E U M D I R E C T O R , R A C O N T E U R

Life is A Calendar

by Roger Colombik • RC26@txstate.edu • rogercolombik.com • @rogercolombik

All Rights Reserved • Published in 2021 • ISBN: 978-0-9899748-3-7 • Design by Katie Gordon Enguri River Press • 1400 Days End Road, Wimberley, Texas, 78676

Above: I N T E R I O R V I E W O F T H E R A S T R O B E T E L S E C O N D H A N D S H O P