There is a lot to say about this. To begin with, Maragall did not choose a commercial title at all. Univocal, yes, clear, of course, but zero as far as appeal is concerned. I was lumbered with this poem at school, when I was just fifteen. I admit that It should have been some kind of inspiration to me -I started to immerse myself in deep thoughts terribly early- but perhaps as a reaction to the teacher devotion to the poem or perhaps due to my lack of experience with the matter it touched, La vaca cega (The blind cow) left me cold at that age. At least I must say I did not laugh, as some of my classmates did.

It took me some fifteen more years. One day, I don’t remember how, I found myself reading this poem on the computer screen. I had not read since school. And I realized I was crying. Suddenly, everything it said came to me so intensely that I couldn’t understand why I had not see it before. Using a real fact he observed in 1892, Maragall made a masterpiece of poetry.

Shortly after, in a show dedicated to Maragall, I asked to recite precisely this poem. And I didn’t want to read, I learned it by heart and recited looking at the audience. I felt that I finally had reconciled with it.

Sorry if I am repeating myself, maybe you’re fed to the teeth with the old little cow, but it’s perhaps the last post of the year, and I’d like to finish 2008 sharing real feelings with you (come to think of it, are there non-real ones?).

Topant de cap en una i altra soca,
avançant d’esma pel camí de l’aigua,
se’n ve la vaca tota sola. És cega.

Here you are, the entire poem summarized in a nutshell! “Una i altra soca” (Every stone), the sense of repetitive pain. “Avançant d’esma” (coming without any zest for life), she has no other reason to act than that of mere subsistence. Her blindness has isolated her from the rest. “És cega” (She’s blind). That’s it. Any further questions?, could we say.

D’un cop de roc llançat amb massa traça,
el vailet va buidar-li un ull, i en l’altre
se li ha posat un tel: la vaca és cega.

Any more direct and sour description of human cruelty? Or defencelessness? Or fate? On one hand, intentional attack. On the other hand, disease. And in the middle, an innocent being. Ok, it’s a cow. But is it only a cow? And if it is, doesn’t it make you think anyway?

Ve a abeurar-se a la font com ans solia,
mes no amb el posat ferm d’altres vegades
ni amb ses companyes, no: ve tota sola.

Having had and lost hurts more deeply than having never had at all. “Com ans solia, més no amb el ferm posat d’altres vegades…” (As before, but not with the proud gesture of old times …) Before, firmness and company. Now, weakness and loneliness. Striking verses.

Ses companyes, pels cingles, per les comes,
pel silenci dels prats i en la ribera,
fan dringar l’esquellot mentre pasturen
l’herba fresca a l’atzar… Ella cauria.

“És cega” (She is blind), “La vaca és cega” (The cow is blind), “Tota sola” (All alone) i “Ella cauria” (She would fall down). Look at the verse structure used by Maragall to lead and re-direct us non-stop to the main topic. At the beginning of this passage, however, fully-motioned verses. You can imagine the other cows in a quick walk to the rhythm of cowbells, enjoying the nature in their cowly way. You’re even about to forget the topic. But the last two words bring you pitilessly back to reality.

Topa de morro en l’esmolada pica
i recula afrontada… Però torna,
i abaixa el cap a l’aigua, i beu calmosa.

“Topa de morro” (she hits her snout), just as she had hit her head a while before. The waterhole rejects her like her companions, like every beautiful thing in the world. She moves back, “però torna” (but comes again). This “comes again” looks terribly hard to me. It’s a surrender to the pain, an humiliation not to die of thirst. Equally brilliant is the adjective usage. She moves back “afrontada” (taking offence): rejection hurts, but drinks “calmosa” (calmly) she accepts her fate.

Beu poc, sens gaire set. Després aixeca
al cel, enorme, l’embanyada testa
amb un gran gesto tràgic; parpelleja
damunt les mortes nines, i se’n torna

“Beu poc, sens gaire set” (Drinks just a little, she’s not very thirsty): Here, once again, I see a description of a lack of zest for life. She raises her head towards the sky. I do not think it’s a random sentence. In fact, the sky is “enorme” (enormous), which makes our cow even smaller, and her “gesto” (gesture) is “tragic” (what a great thing to use this word!). Imagining the cow blinking over her died pupils makes you shiver.

orfe de llum sota del sol que crema,

Two words to be noted here: “orfe” (orphan) and “crema” (burning). The light has left her orphan and the sun burns. As a result, she only feels the burning, the negative side, but she can not see the world lightened by the sun. Good grief!

vacil.lant pels camins inoblidables,

Can someone be insisting and masterful at the same time? Yes, here’s the proof of it. “Vacil·lant” (faltering), again that sense of insecurity against the former strength. And why are the roads are “inoblidables” (unforgettable)? Because she’s not able to see them, she needs to know them much better than the other cows.

brandant lànguidament la llarga cua.

I remember that at this point teachers always say how reading this verse aloud recreates the rythm of the cow’s tail when moving from one side to another. In addition, you can imagine her going away with that faltering step that brings you infinite sadness.

I’ve always loved textual analysis -had real trouble in finishing on time when I did my exams-. Analyzing this poem could take many pages, but I think I’ve said more or less what I intended to, and there’s no problem in Maragall being insisting, but I’d better go right to the point.

Now I invite you now to read it again (you can see the catalan version below, along with the translation Miguel de Unamuno wrote in Spanish) free of comments, not to make you sad or depressed, but to get carried away by sensitivity and compassion. And your tears are welcome if they come, as tears that spring from deep feelings are a perfect way to water the soul.

≡ Category: Lifetime, Literature | ≅ Leave a comment

We all love it. Now I don’t make everything by myself, as I used to do years ago. We share taskes according to age and tastes (which are obviously related). I’m the responsible for thinking and creating the scenary, the little girls place the characters and make it snow, and he lends a good hand in do-it-yourself and lighting matters.

What we could pretentiously call “creative process” of the crib’s construction, as far as I’m concerned, has a first phase in which I am absolutely unbearable. I apologize to the victims for the past as well as in advance, but It’s something I can’t help. I look at the empty tables, side by side:

And I ask myself how will the landscape look this year. I place the house first and the rest finds its place gradually, only not always so fast as I’d like it to. At this point, questions like “what will you put here?” or “will the kings have a long path to go?” become as anguishing as impossible to answer, If you know what I mean…

Finally, everything is more or less prepared.

When Saint Cork appears, things are far from ready. This is a moment loneliness is more welcome than ever, because in a rapture of anarchy I start to collect any object I think than can come in useful. A CD case? Maybe the shepherds will feel great lying there. A cardboard strip? Properly folded it will turn into wonderful stairs. A metal tray for food? It’s the best pond for little ducks. Here again, questions like “why are you undoing this?” “what is your mousepad doing here?” or “so, you don’t want this box anymore?” are so logical for those who make them as annoying for me. A nice mp4 with ear-stuck headphones is a good way to get
concentrated.

As in a miracle, things seem to fit in the end and the project goes on. The moss starts to cover holes and manipulation evidence, also leaving a heavenly-scented room, a beautiful crib and heaps of living bugs that in the best of cases crawl above the plastic tablecloths and in the worst start to fly around. I always wear gloves when placing the moss.

After some four hours, I seat in a calm releaf and let Pandolfi and Pirindola decide about the figures and the climate. I always tell them to distribute the shepherds properly and not to make it snow too much. As we had an empty corner in the background paper, they wished a Merry Christmas in several languages:

And that’s it. Now for some details:

This year the shepherds have nice stairs to climb to the cave.

The Angel flies over the shepherds with the priceless help of the head of the family.

The three Kings have a long way to walk (we have to buy camel-riding kings, I know these are not the suitable ones… anyway the crisis can explain why they decide to go on foot).

The little ducks splash on the pond.

And last but not least, when we bought the moss they gave us a Christmas plant as a present: a perfect colored spark for the stable.

Welcome to our crib!

≡ Category: Lifetime | ≅ Leave a comment

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