Alternate definition: Something I should have done with my creative writing notebook. I left it open on my bed after writing a haiku for April 26th (we are supposed to have written something for every day) and my senora READ it. She just came in to my room apologizing for reading my "journal," but justifying herself in that she loves poetry and saw it open on my bed... I'm not mad or anything, I actually think it's pretty funny, because I'm very sure she read:
La flor morada,
flotando en la piscina
de sangre oscura.
Meaning:
The purple flower,
floating in the pool
of dark blood.
She was saying how "fuerte" (strong) my poetry was and she told her husband and blah blah. But honestly I wrote it just to fill space, not to express the deep corners of my soul. So now she thinks I'm a brooding American writing poetry inspired by Spain. Like Washington Irving or Hemingway. But things didn't end there:
Later, my padre comes in carrying these three books in awful condition...they had clearly been through a lot. He proceeds to tell me how he adores poetry, and back in the immediate years following the Civil War (known as the "years of hunger"), the only thing that got him and his family through the tough times was poetry. Specifically, Walt Whitman, who had written two of the books in his hands. The third book, which was in the worst condition with burn marks and a largely detached cover, was an anthology of Miguel Hernandez poems, a poet who was killed during the civil war. He wrote anti-Franco poetry. My padre proceeded to mark a few poems that I should read, and gave me the book.
Don't get me wrong, I think all of the history is really interesting! It's just that I'm not a HUGE poetry fan and now I have to pretend to be. But there are worse things in life...
I am enjoying my new homestay. My life is certainly...stranger here. My madre has an energy pyramid that keeps the energy of the house in balance, and I just walked in on her sitting in her chair and staring at an asian person (who was also just sitting) for minutes. I think she is "meditating." She also said we don't have to lock the doors because her spiritual guide will keep us safe... I suggested we lock them "por si acaso."
My padre is a good guy. He tells a lot of jokes. I understand maybe 40% of them, but I laugh at all of them.
Also, it has approached the time of year when it gets INCREDIBLY HOT. I'm talking upper 90s, and it's only May! And it gets to 115 in the summer. But not to fear! The Sevillanos have a way to defend themselves. Nope, it's not air conditioning. Nope, it's not opening the windows (which would actually let more heat in). They lock all of the windows and pull down the shades. During the summer, nobody leaves their house until 10pm, when the sun sets. I think they'd do well with a zombie apocalypse.
