Emmy’s Alter Ego Shows Up to Talk Poetry
To be perfectly honest, I don’t quite “get” a lot of poetry and think it’s dumb and overdramatic.
You’re just too stupid to understand it.
Not true. I love “Crepusculo” by Silva, but Blake’s piping Jesus thing does not fascinate me enough to delve into the meanings.
Man, you’re lame, talking poetry and all that crap. You should probably get off your fat ass & go to they gym more rather than reading Spanish poetry. Spanish poetry will not get you a boyfriend. In fact, it might be an anti-boyfriend factor.
I’m bettering myself. And besides, any dude who doesn’t think that’s important isn’t good enough for me.
Do you seriously ask yourself why you’re single? Because you just answered your own question.
Whatever. You wouldn’t even know poetry and beauty in life if it hit you in the face.
Oh yeah? How about you minus fifteen pounds? Now that’s poetry.
No, that’s anorexia. You want to know one of the most beautiful and poetic experiences I’ve ever had?
Shoot. I was just ready to take a nap.
Ten years ago I had the opportunity to spend a summer in Malaga, Spain. My parents pretty much didn’t want to have to deal with me for another summer home from college so they were like “hey get out of here…have fun, don’t die or get VD” (success on all fronts). The third week I was there was the Summer Solstice.
Now if there is anything that the Spanish culture is lacking, it is not in their ability and excuses to party. Hell, if you stub your toe they’d probably name a day after it & have some sort of parade. And it’d be a magical parade because everything in Spain is magical.
The tradition in Malaga for Summer Solstice is the make a doll out of any bad memories or experiences you’ve had throughout the year. Examples include exes’ clothes, letters, bad news you’ve received, or anything you want to rid yourself of in general. I packed up my doll, blankets, food, booze, and cruised down to the beach in the evening to meet up with the crew.
The bonfires began as the sun was going down and were roaring by twilight. Everyone was laughing, dancing, and shedding the negative energies of past year one by one. Some people sat down their dolls gently and said a silent prayer, while others violently flung the memories they quickly wanted to put behind them. The emotions were overwhelming, even though we were surrounded by strange families who we’d probably not even recognize at the bakery the next morning. But people smiled at each other so comfortingly. Despite personally disliking most crowd situations, I felt completely comfortable and at ease.
I distinctly remember walking back to the beach from our apartment to the scene of roaring fires and the Mediterranean above on the horizon. I don’t know if it was the Cruzcampo hitting me or what but I felt like someone had just knocked the wind out of me and began crying uncontrollably. Not temper tantrum flop on your bed like a fish crying. Instead, a sobbing release. It was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen in my life. Quickly, I put myself back together and headed toward my group of friends. We sat and told stories for a while longer, children weaving in and out of our little bonfire area, wildly chasing each other and somehow managing to not get sand in our drinks.
The sky was dark, we were tipsy, and it was time. We gathered to the edge and stood with our feet in the water. At the stroke of midnight a hush fell on to the crowd and we all made a wish for the year. The silence didn’t last long, as the night was still very young and we had a whole lot more to eat and drink. Soon the crowd thinned a bit to visit clubs but we stayed on the beach until almost dawn drinking, laughing, skinny dipping…
Wait, what? Skinny-dipping? Why didn’t you just skip to the good parts?
I told you the good parts. Food, friends, bonfires, it was one of the loveliest nights of my life. And every year since I’ve done something similar but it usually involves the Smokey Joe and a bathtub.
Lame. What about more naked stuff? Did you at least bang in the Sea?
No, you dirtbag! Do you want to hear about when I went to the Sophia Raina a couple weeks later?
Boo. No. You talk too much.
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Yerp!