I woke up with the usual rustling n zipping and instead of waiting for everyone to fuck off as i normally did to get some kip, i got up and headed out into the sun before the noisy bastards. I was so excited about writing that i flipped open Smaragda, my trusty Mac laptop in the first cafe i found and began to type furiously while scoffing sweet shit and cafe con leches.
After 5 hours i thought i better get a move on and headed out with the umberella in hand, into the unkown again. I thought about what i had just wrote and wanted to change it immediately. I had more to say. And wanted to change the way I had said certain things. It was live on the blog and people were reading it but it was all wrong. Ah fuck. I thought about it more and more and was obsessing with all i wanted to say.
I completely ignored my lessons that were rammed into my brain during my 7 hour rainy grey onslaught yesterday. The lessons of appreciating the moment. And now the weather was better, as i dreamed of yesterday, and i was hardly aware. The sun shined and I walked as quick as i could. Kept on going. All i wanted was a Wi Fi connection so i could type more. Nothing for hours. More dogs on chains barked like rabid fucking wolves at me through large gates. In my frustration I began to bark back at them and try and scare them off. This only served to make them more and more angry and try harder to ecsape to eat me.
Three bars, 2 cafes, still no WiFi. Today was getting on my tits. I just wanted to write. I ingored all the scenery and people and just kept trying to get there. Fuck the journey get me to the WIFI!!!
I started to drift off after a few boring hours and began to think of technical ability in creativity. And how my writing and my music always seemed better when i just blurted it out with no respect for technique. Trying to capture something. The essence of something. I thought it`s far more important to capture the spirit of something than to be technically brilliant at something. But then how do you create or summon a spirit. Spirituality. Has to be the essence of something. I remembered Thomaas saying about my hurting legs how it would make me more spiritual. So is Pain the creator of Spirit?
Then from around a corner came hurtling two dogs who were on the lose. No chains. No gates. No protection for meee! FUCK!! they came straight for me. Going for one ankle each – their jaws salivating and barking like fucking beasts from hell. I must admit they werent the biggest dogs i ever seen. OK. They were tiny. But that aint the point! They were ANGRY and had sumthing to prove! As if all the other dogs in the region had howled through the hills and communicated that i had been barking back at them all day. These little fuckin insane slippers with jaws were now ready to make me pay.
I flipped around my umberella and swung it wide between the two little fucks. They kept barking but it was becoming more of a roar, like an angry pair of bears or somthing. I shat myself! And starting shouting FUCK OFF YA CUNTS and other random English abuse at them. Being Spanish dogs they probably had no idea what i was saying…
Another wide swing and as i brought the brolly up the fucker on the right darted for my ankle. i brought it down and clipped him right on the end of his nose with the bend of the brolly handle. He yelped a pussylike squeek and darted off around the corner. His freind still roaring at me. I kept swinging the umberella and screaming like a woman til he edged off backwards in the direction of his friend. My heart was pumping blood round my shit scared shaking body. I composed myself, muttering “Little Fuckers” as I turned round to get out of there. I almost walked into a tiny Spanish granny who was stood speachless having witnessed me jumping round like a bellend with an umberalla screaming at two chihuahuas.
“Olaaa!” I offered loudly
“Ola” came the stiff quiet response as i shuffled off.
CAFE!!! WITH WIFI! and BOCAFUCKINGDILLOS! and COFFEE!
in there! sat down. was served the biggest bocadillo known to mankind.
A bocadillo is basically a sandwich. a huge sandwich. dry. no butter. no fillings except a dried piece of thin dark red meat slapped in there. like a rotten minging toungue in the middle of a crusty old loaf. I gulped it down trying to whet my pimply dry white mouth inbetween bites with the miniscule cup of coffee i was served.
I flipped open Smaragda The Laptop, ready to WRITE!
Two policemen walked in and my laptop started having a spack attack. Could it be their equipment i thought. I waited til they went. Then again the screen went nuts.. like never before.. letters and numbers all over the screen. things going bananans. then it just died.
Now this is my intrument on stage with the band. It´s made thousands of people dance and that´s it´s main use. It´s also my communication device for keeping in touch with people. My production tool. My accounts. My diary. My Cinema. My bank. My porn beatermax. My type writer. My Skype machine. My flyer maker. My video maker. My marketing machine. My library. My… my…. My fuckin everything basically. . PLEASE DON´T FUCKING DIE!!!
i tried everyting. i ended up with just a flashing question mark on the screen everytime i tried to switch it on.
There was a big lesson for me to learn here. This happened for a reason. and i knew it.
At the albergue i drank lots of lager and was half asleep and half crying draped over an arm chair as the chorus of snores and guffs fluttered all over me.
“Technique doesn`t come into it. I deal in emotions.” -Jimmy Page
38Km to Santiago!