Monday, September 29, 2014

המוסיקה היהודית האנדלוסית يهود الأندلس Jewish Sephardic music 500 year old SPANISH SONGS THAT TOMAS REMEMBERS ... 9/30/14

He left Marianne's dark refuge and went abroad in the world. Certain streets were clean and orderly, cleared of refuse and undesirables by the warlords, so they and their clients might have respite from the madness. Influential oligarchs strolled through with their retinues. Well dressed ladies, some wives, some demi-wives drank rare and costly coffees at sidewalk cafes. Fire jugglers and conjurers regaled crowds at intersections. Electronic entertainment, save for sporadic, scratchy radio broadcasts, did not exist anymore, so they played out on the streets for lesser grades of fame.

Tomas breathed it all in, savoring the menu available to him that night. How like the mercados and souks of his boyhood in Old Al Andalus. And in his soul he heard the music of that place, ancient cantorials and Sephardic love songs, sung 'round fires in courtyards and caravanserai. He went into a small establishment, a perfumery in what used to be a chocolate shop. In a way, to a scent intoxicated vampire, it still was. The woman behind the counter, an olive skinned

beauty, bewitched him. Not that she meant to, but her form and mien was so like the ladies he remembered from his youth. She smiled, sold him sandalwood and laughed. He politely bowed his head, forever the well bred, Spanish courtier and paid her in the accepted currency of these times, cut up bits of silver from salvaged tableware.... one teaspoon bowl and a fork tine. Then he put the small bottle, once home to aspirin, in his pocket and left, but he came back later, just before dawn, and took her as she tidied up. A scared, girl, her daughter, watched through a barely opened store room door. Tomas pitied her, all alone in such a place, so he took her too. Then he sauntered off to rest among the crypts and bone safes of the great Laurel Hill Cemetery. 

Like a passenger in a speeding train, he was. Like a slave, deep within the hold of a rancid, creaking ship... along for the ride, though unable to change the course. And in a sense this saved him, absolved him of all guilt. He had no choice. He was compelled. Any resistance would be futile. Besides, it all tasted so damned good and there was so much of it. 

Not my fault - he told himself. This new body makes me do it. The morals and the appetites and the 'need' are not natural to me..... Maybe he was right? And maybe he wasn't. 

But he had an excuse... And an excuse is a dangerous thing for a vampire to have.

Now if you'd like to peek into his mind and share his memories, listen to the music up above, sung in medieval, Ladino, an old Sephardic Castillian dialect.

Memories can be quite overpowering...

<more next time>


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