Wednesday, October 6
WHERE EAGLES
Under the gentle rain, I have the whole city around me. North beyond between the gray glow of the golden domes of the cathedral, on the right, closer, the mole demolished (lacks the large red star) of the former Party headquarters, on the south, yet more tomes, with its modern age, the National Palace of Culture. And everywhere, a labyrinth of rickety heights, terraces and attics, avenues and alleys, the brilliant green of the large parks or small woodlands. This place, on top of the Ministry of Transport, once reserved for the leaders of the Party, is now a restaurant available to anyone who can afford it. Few, it seems: there are only two tables occupied. The feeding of melancholy eyes.
The National Palace Culture was the latest rave old regime. The minister who built it was the daughter of the dictator, he aspired to be a new Eva Peron, died, say they murdered, before seeing it finished. Has endless rooms, corridors, elevators, stairs that go nowhere. It's easy to get lost in it. I know from experience. In my nightmares, when they open their wings closed for a while due to lack of staff or money for lighting and heating, are one body: mine. A bird's eye view, not scary.
try to recognize in this impressionistic haze, some places. There, at the end of Zhenski Pazar, the Ladies Market is the Bridge of Lions, and the other side, near the University, the Bridge of the Eagles. Flyby, as an eagle again, the familiar places, especially tree-lined streets and silent where, after crossing a neglected yard, climbing stairs, walking down a dark hallway, there is a hidden door, or hiding, all the light in the world. Liliana
Tabakova listen to tell the story of Orlin Vasilev, his stepfather, a marginalized writer during the communist for wanting to remain faithful to the ideals of communism and now doubly forgotten. I scored one of his titles: "Guard well the treasure of your unhappiness." Is he correct? Should not that happiness?
While I keep my treasure unhappiness. I'd rather be unhappy and I knew you, be happy and to have passed, the day of yesterday or a lifetime ago, by a shadowy street, not having sought a direction pointed shakily on paper, not having called a bell not sound, have not beaten with the hand on the door ... Liliana Tabakova keep talking, but I just heard, I am dedicated to getting drunk with melancholy echoes in my memory as a verse of Verlaine: "Il pleure dans mon coeur / Comme il pleut sur la ville .... " Yes, crying my heart like rain on the city.
Thursday, October 7 Animae
Rerum
about to enter the Archaeological Museum, I'm surprised the shrill hum of a procession. But there is a procession which was about the great avenue, although the head of a rough wooden cross and the participants wear a tunic purple: they are left-wing trade unions protest against the government's intention to delay the age of retirement and other anti-crisis measures. Near the cross, I see the flag of Bulgaria. There are other flags, but no red, no sign of its recent communist past. Even in the museum there is evidence of the long centuries of Islam. Oh yes: the museum, the Bujuk Mosque, Grand Mosque, as admirable as the most admirable parts it contains. And wonders how many locks: the weapons of the Thracians who fought in the verses of Homer tombstones where anonymous faces harm us with its serenity, the gold mask which may have led Agamemnon, the bas-relief, as a sign announces the show Serdika's amphitheater, the Roman Sofia (on the remains, recently discovered, have built a hotel), the prodigious bust a refined barbarian king ... But to me what most caught my attention is a piece that does not bear any indication (or at least I have not found it): a man and a woman behind, their faces blotted out, that seem to move towards us. Maybe it's Orfeo Joyful returning from hell with a Eurydice that will vanish forever as he returns his gaze. I do not know what I do know is that now this man and this woman will keep walking tireless dream.
The Museum Cafe, while the rain falls on the garden, think about my life, the pointlessness of any life, and memory verses of a forgotten poet: "Looking at the blurred landscape Sadness and feelings of my soul dark dull pain, / I do not know, confused terror and fright, / if I cry their agony or my sentences if he cries. "
What is unreal it all: the protesters who have replaced the hammer and sickle a crude cross, the soldiers in uniform stand guard operetta that outside the presidential palace, the museum faces that I still look like I recognize, this quiet coffee out of the world where I write some lines that do not know where I read and I have remained forever in the memory: "I do not know if it is the shadow who fills my soul / and if my soul is emerging in the shade."
Friday, October 8 Koprivshtitsa
this sunny autumn day on a road between mountains (next to the Balkans, the other the Cordillera del Medio) came to Koprivshtitsa, a town whose architecture reminds me of the Old Plovdiv. They tell me that is one of the holy places of Bulgarian history, took place here in 1876, the April uprising was the beginning of liberation from here sent the "blood letter" written with the blood of a Turkish killed, encouraging cities to revolt. The great statue of Todor Kableshkov, one of the heroes, committed suicide in prison twenty-five, wielding a gun. "Hero? After independence hero. Before, a terrorist who denounced their own neighbors, rich merchants, to prevent the city was destroyed by the Turks in order to remain wealthy merchants (it ruined the separated from the empire). "This is the real Bulgaria," I say, but I see a theme park, an ethnographic museum, the colorful scene of a patriotic story. The church of the Assumption, which dilutes its almost blue in the blue sky, was built in eleven days, according to legend, and looks like a fragile model, in its twilight colored light a few candles. I ask nothing, if God existed, he would know very well what I want more than anything. Beside the church is the cemetery. That these dead happy outside, caressed by the splendor of autumn. At the tomb of the poet Dimcho Debelyanov, a statue of his mother, who is still waiting for the war as when dreaming coming back and she went to greet the backyard. A beautiful patio, where even be possible that encounter. I know of no Debelyanov poem, but here, with his grave, not difficult for me to imagine any "Silence ... Not a leaf quivers in the wind. / Everything sleeps in the silent calm of the afternoon. / You can hear the grass grow and the soul feels to be opened like a flower a sweet thought. "
Saturday, October 9
POSSIBLE HAVENS
With its glass facades and all its lights on, in the icy nights of winter seems a picture of paradise. And somehow it is: capitalist paradise that dreams of entering this country.
But it's just a mall, the Mall of Sofia, the first one opened in the city. Finally I get to take a coffee in it (my Bulgarian friends, as my English friends, they hate these cathedrals of consumption). The windows overlook the Stambolisiiski Boulevard, where he lives Panchovska Rada, which now accompanies me, one wall is occupied by bookshelves. It's nice here, with good lighting, adequate heat, and pleasant company. It would also be at home alone, as so often in so many other malls. If I lived in this city, would come every day to read for a while and go through life feeling. I'm a loner, but I hate being alone alone, I prefer to be alone among the people. We
around the various floors. "I do not know what you may be interested, all these sites are equal." Same and different as human beings. I watch films in cinemas, and in part overlaps with that of Los Prados. I like being at home, so far from home.
Back at the hotel, in the newly opened subway station near the University, Rada shows a new library. Is large and comfortable and has an old section is like a maze crammed with treasures. What treasures? I cherish the books, as usual, but with difficulty I can hardly spell any title. How strange to be surrounded by books and not read any. I think of Tantalus, parched by a spring, and Borges, to whom God gave irony of both the blindness and the direction of the National Library.
Sunday, October 10
THERE TWO CITIES
Whenever I return to this land, I insist on going to Plovdiv as my hosts were struggling to take elsewhere. A Veliko Tarnovo, for example, that stands between the meanders of the Yantra river and was destroyed by the Turks in 1393. But I am the least adventurous person in the world. I never go for the first time anywhere, except under compulsion. In this country I Cervantes and Victor brought boots, and it was love at first sight. I'll be back whenever I can, but at the same hotel, opposite a park with archaeological remains, three or four corners of Sofia, Plovdiv. I like the pedestrian streets, the square with the statue of Philip on the Roman Amphitheatre Dzhumaya mosque, one of those places where the pain subsides, the Maritsa river and the Grand Theatre.
descend the steep stairways to the stage, and there set to represent (some children, above him, are the only amazed spectators) vested interests. "Great city must be this, Crispin, is warns all his dominion and wealth. " "Two cities have, heaven forbid that we have given the best," he answered Crispin, I mean, Almuzara. "Two cities say? I understand, old and new, one part of the river. " "What matters the river or the old or new! I say two cities and in every city in the world: one for the money arrives and the other for coming like us. "
Two cities are in every city in the world. One for those who live in it and another for those who pass through it. Sometimes only the latter, if they can listen with your eyes, he revealed his secret.
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