Stick to Wilbur
I finally went to the cinema. I could hardly believe months had gone by since the last time, and i indulged myself into one of the greatest pleasures for the eyes, the mind and the body (especially when it's so hot outside you don't want to leave the room after the credits roll).

The chosen was 'Wilbur wants to kill himself'. It's a Danish movie filmed in English language with an impressive bouquet of actors. A bitter comedy that makes you feel light upon leaving the cinema (and, in our case, have a long conversation over gin n tonics at the Cafe Central).

After that, i was on a roll. A few days later i took a walk and my steps took me to the same cinema, where i decided i needed another dose. 'La casa de los babys' is another somewhat bitter movie with a bunch a very good actresses, with a plot that never develops and a sense of boredom you simply don't ever overcome.

And then, the worst happened. You're driving from a town outside Madrid into the city. The road is probably and literally burning as you go. You stop at one of those massive cinemas tailor-made to see action movies à la 'Matrix'. You must chose between 'Spiderman 2' or 'Spartan'. You take option 2 because you have a faint memory of liking director David Mamet sometime in your previous life.

Jesus Christ. Val Kilmer is the piggy/main character. There is no script. Nor there is any of the so called action (which isn't really a big deal for me). The film is plain bad, like eating something that has gone off. With a weird taste in our mouths, we go back home. We are seduced by the idea of taking yet another sip of cinema and seeing 'Fahrenheit 9/11' but can't really be bothered. So we go to the DVD rentals and pick up 'Zoolander'. At least we giggled, and i had the enourmour pleasure of seeing Pablo do his very particular impression of the blue ice look.

Mountain House
The heat is disgusting. It sticks to the back of my neck while i sleep and sucks up all the energy in the entire city. People walk slowly, drink large quantities of liquid (from water to dry martinis, any fluid will do) and roll their eyes when they leave a shop. Summer in Madrid. Hell in a non air conditioned appartment. Life is hot.

I should probably take mental notes for future reference and try not to:

- Change the furniture around the sitting room, creating Sarajevo-like atmosphere and dealing with aching muscles plus extreme dehydration.

- Neglect to open the window when the sun is down, thus missing the lovely breeze our neighbours are enjoying at the local terrazas.

- Spend long hours in front of the computer, which as we all know is a source of heat more powerful than the Sun.

- Iron shirts. Under any circumstances. I'm seriously considering taking the matter (= plastic bags full of clothes) to the dry cleaners.

All of these issues and a couple more should explain why Pablo and i intend to squat at the Mountain Family House for the largest part of August come next week. We will be entertaining there too. Don't hesitate to drop by.

Let's make it official and on line
I have good and bad news for you today.

The good news is Kurt, after many many many many many months of thinking about it and even announcing it, has finally launched his very own weblog.

Bad news for some of you is it's in Spanish.

Time to take summer lessons. It's worth it, take my word for it.

A break in the words
A true pleasure for the eyes can be found here (do turn your sound devices on).



We eagerly reccomend The Drum Machine. Enjoy.

P.S.: Not going anywhere for the moment. The Cadiz project was just some sort of mental oasis we dived into. Still in love with both Madrid and the idea of leaving Madrid. All for the best, probably.

Write about writing
Not writing this journal does not keep me away from it.

I signed up for a creative writing workshop that began last Monday, erroneously convinced it was about how to express private feelings (aren't all feelings private?) when you're writing an essay, a novel or an epic poem. Five minutes after the class had begun i realized it was about the journal as a genre.

At first, i thought it didn't make much sense. Then the teacher -Argentinean novelist Alan Pauls- mentioned weblogs. "Anyone can keep an online journal", he said.

Wow. I am aware that what i write here is part of my life and thus applies as a private journal, but i've always thought that the fact that neither you (in most cases) nor me use our real names, the lack of personal details in the entries and the use of a foreign language when i write prevents me from considering Ambivalence a "Dear Diary" object.

When i started writing here, a few years ago, i tried to get into one of those meme threads, the kind that gives you stuff to write about (i.e.: Wednesday, the theme is people that have made an impression in your life). My general idea was to have an excuse to write more, as an exercise. Yes, i was actually looking for homework. But, alas, most of these threads dismissed me because Ambivalence "is more a weblog than a journal". Their criteria was... length (!). If you write short sentences and short entries, it's apparently not as personal as if you go on and on forever -like i'm doing right now.

I haven't written much in Ambivalence since Monday because i was discussing journals too much. I knew that sitting at the computer would instantly bring back all the words floating in my head from the workshop.

I would think about the way i tend to close my entries by returning to the beginning (circular writing?), or the fact that my journal is meant to be read and even has a window for comments from friends and strangers.

I would also think about the guy in class who gave up writing in his journal because he became his journal, because he started living his life thinking at all times how he'd translate every single experience into his notebook.

I would think about my ego and the reasons i started writing here anyway.

I would think about the people who know me and have discovered me through my journal.

I would think about the importance i give to different pieces of information. Politics. Sport. Fashion. Personal life. Money. Music. Cinema.

Well, i got it out of my system now. Time to continue with Ambivalence.

A home in Cadiz
Today could very well be the first of an era. We might be moving shortly to, hmm, Cadiz. Hence the trip last week. I can't give you many details yet but i can tell you that city has been on our minds for quite a while now.

We don't know anyone there. We don't know where the cool spots are, we can't really locate the bar area and we haven't a clue on which is the best part of town to live in. But we know we like it. We share the same attraction for the ocean, who decisively runs Cadiz's life. We like the idea of a brand new beginning. We feel ready to jump, one way or the other.

You'd have trouble finding a girl as passionately in love with Madrid as i am, though i think the time to explore again is here. Of course i'll miss the three neighbourhoods that mark my little territory, i'll miss knowing exactly how to get back home even if i am clueless of where i am, i'll miss the spring attacking your ankles from a street corner, the smell of winter falling upon your rain hat, the amazing shops, the alcohol temples.

I'll miss my babies the M&m's, mum, the entire Mountain Family, Six, Morgana, Trix, Dixie, Kurt, Dwalks, darlingLucia, Nick, Freeway Pat, Fmas, Ona, Juan, Alaitz, LovelyV, Anouk, F, Oscar, Fede, and the bunch of strangers i look at whenever i walk around the city. My home is where my people are, but my people will have a home in Cadiz.

I got myself a tan
So, did ya miss me?
Fresh news right after the break.

Poetry reading






I'd enjoy my poetry workshop a 100% if it weren't for the fact that we're all supposed to read our own stuff in front of the class. I don't think i can do that. Not fond of talking to an audience. Especially if we take into consideration i'm not a big poem writer, either.

So, boys and girls, give me some courage and a truck full of inspiration before i head towards my third day of Uma's Cultural Week. And by the way, don't you just luuuuuuuuuuve the place?

Frida icon
Wasn't she truly something? I don't know why this woman keeps making such a huge impression on me. Her life, her work, herself. Inspiring. She died fifty years ago today. An excuse as good any other to think about Frida Kahlo again.

Summer job
After assuming my current unemployment, i've been waiting long hours at various offices (mainly banks and state owned buildings) in order to get my act together. I've been officially devoured by paper bureaucracy.

Despite my lack of a regular job, i am quite far from being disoccupied or even completely relaxed, which feels more natural to me. I'm used to having a timetable, a deadline and your average amount of stress so i like this transitional task list that runs through my head on a daily basis.

I'm starting my poetry classes this afternoon (the girl will answer no calls until 9 pm) and i still have to fill in some more paper work tomorrow. After that it is highly likely that i'll jump on a train on Friday and get my white ass to Cadiz. A tan is compulsory.

I was considering taking a plane there but the prices are absolutely ridiculous, even for an impatient traveler as myself. I would only pay that fare if El Bulli was taking care of the menu, a Benicio del Toro look-alike flight attendant gave me a Chanel sleeping mask and i was seated next to someone entertaining such as Paris Hilton, La Chunga or my beloved John Cusack. So a train it is.

I still have to confirm many details on the SWP. Venue. Transportation. Costs. And please note i still lack the wedding shoes. Breathe in, Uma. We'll find them. As soon as i have the arrangements ready, some of you will be getting an invite on your mail box. Be sure to check that item on the entry of your block, i'll prove to you it doesn't just hold bills and publicity.

Literature classes, Spanish coast sightseeing, Wedding Planning. Honey, do you still think i should get a summer job?

First day journal
It all began yesterday. It was the first day of the rest of my life and i didn't really know what to do with time. I didn't get up early. I didn't go to the bank. I didn't go to the unemployment office. I didn't get the groceries. I didn't even take a nap.

Morning was spent with Pablo, doing not much. Two cups of coffee and lunch. Afternoon was a whole new story, since i bought:

- 1 kitchen knife from Albacete, land of pointy stuff
- Lee Miller's biography
- 1 cooking timer, the kind that turns and goes click click until your roasting time's up
- 1 BaByliss hair styler in case i need to live at a windy area at some point in my life
- 6 packs of fags (3 per moi, 3 per Pablo)
- 1 Emily Dickinson book
- 1 poetry class for all of next week
- 1 potato peeler by Bödum

Do you think i should get myself a job?

A blast
Around mid afternoon on Saturday, just a few hours away from the Goodbye to Spinsterhood Ritual, i received a text from Dixie: "No black this evening". I assumed i was not allowed to wear the gorgeous frock i got from Nick, guessing, quite accurately, my company for the evening were all going to look like smart widows. Here's the selection of pics from an unforgettable night with my loyal monochrome team. We had a blast.

Girlie girls
There were no related gadgets that night. No tittie aprons, no penis shaped hats, no disguises for the bride-to-be. Just us, eleven girls around a wooden table, having delicious Greek dinner and doing a lot of dancing.

First, following the allegedly Greek waiters' routines, then at Morocco, where Dixie and i did a quite memorable 'New York New York' duet, and all around the evening there was the laughter, the drinks, the chatter, the pictures (still to come, give us a chance to recover here).

I got kick ass Victoria's Secret lingerie, a summer 'pareo' and a treat to be the most healthy looking girl after my Bride Programme at the Estée Lauder center. Sooo Sex and the City, if you ask me. And yes, those are my feet on the table. The proud owner of the cleavage at the back shall remain undisclosed, boys and girls.

Girls night out
I've never been to a bachelorette party. I did go out for drinks and dance steps with Dixie shortly before her beautiful wedding, but that didn't fall into the regular category of a bachelorette party, if you know what i mean.

The idea i get from this sort of event is a bunch of girls with fizzy hair and penis shaped items on their heads, beauty contest bands over their bright coloured dresses and enough changed notes to slip them into a fireman's underwear. I think i watched way too many teen movies in the 80's.

On the other hand, it's great to have a girls' night out, with good food, the best company and many hours to enjoy the dry Madrid summer evenings. It reminds me of the University years, when i used to go out every weekend with Morgana, Six and the others. Nights began at a restaurant, sipping white wine, and ended at El Sol, gulping rhum. It was bachelorette night forever.

I've never been to a bachelorette party, but i'll attend mine tomorrow. Anecdotes and forbiden pictures by Monday.