A Trip to Spain Pt.3: Last morning in Málaga

In the blanched heart of 4am, if you had seen me, I was tank-topped and illuminated in blue. Sleep was a tease and a bitch, so I sat down at the hotel room desk, in my Batman shorts, and joined the act of collective consciousness that is the Google search.

I screen capped a few shots of the 405 fwy (which appeared on my previous entry) and responded to my mother, who has been concerned for my well-being. Bear had mentioned to her, in passing, that I had slept in through yesterday’s rehearsal, and she was worried that I was sleeping through my entire time in Spain. A mother’s love is as true as it is exponentially protective, so I wrote back to her, assuring her that I was aiming more for Sophia Loren then Rip Van Winkle, and that I had slept through rehearsal because I hadn’t gotten to sleep until 6am the previous night – and if I am to be fabulous – and I am – I must get my rest whenever it comes.

fabulous

fabulous

fabulous, no?

Also, to paint more of a savory experience, I mentioned an almond based soup called Ajo Blanco – just delirious, shamelessly deluxe, smooth and salty with frozen mango bits. I wrote about my adventures speaking Spanish to the Spanish, that I’ve been told my accent is excellent –unfortunately, my talent for accent outreaches my ability to speak the language! For now.

So at some point before 7:30am, I sleep. I know this because the alarm clock burst into my consciousness like glass splitting into my solarplexus. The centre of me shot hot and cold adrenaline, I groaned and hugged my starched white pillow.

And now. Through the early eye marine layer which sits on hotel breakfast rooms, blue grey and dissonant with whispers of the faintly awake

And now. Through the European one way streets, labrynthine, fractured lines on asphault, following construction cones, following the ebb and flow of the Euro and the Dollar

And now. Nestled in this corner chair, in a rehearsal studio, in a vibratory ocean of rumbling bass drum, strings and winds, screeching up in velvet minor seconds and tremolo. I wonder how much of this I will remember like a dream.

2-view

2-view

3-me

3-me

Raya Yarbrough

Singer, Composer, writer of absurd stories about LA, chanteuse on Outlander, BSG, DaVinci's Demons, & I used to date Dick Grayson.