[Yes, the EZLN and zapatista translations are still in the Library, and there shall be more tomorrow.]
I know I had promised detour and diversion this evening, but I was met with the former myself. A missive, the more formal closing statement from last weekend's meeting. I will have it out tomorrow.
And I'm feeling a tad Orwellian this eve - as in Orwell in Barcelona. Not the most comfortable of circumstances, Orwell and Barcelona taken separately notwithstanding.
Perhaps, given the above, a micro-homage of my own.
The birds and flowers and magazine stalls and oceans of humanity of La Ramblas [yes, I know, but it is how I call it].
The Plaza del Pi and Plaza Sant Josep Oriol - the epicentre of the universe. The passementerie shop; the ancient alchemist, a perfumer, who can read one's heart; Beardsley around the corner [where I learned to make my own Venetian masks], and everything else one could ever require.
La Boquería, of course, simply and truly paradise on earth.
Not perfect, no. There is, for example, a certain class of endlessly self-styled "intellectuals" whom one just knows wear their Armanis to bed. And the usual rapacious mercantilists whoring their trade at all levels.
But, unlike so much of the rest of the world, there is also another city, which still exists and most likely always will.
A city which reads, and thinks about what it reads, which embraces all eccentricity and sells hashish in its pharmacies. A city which manages to comfortably embrace anarchism and socialism, decadence and brilliance, competence and indulgence.