Calma, Calma

A Mallorcan phrase which is touted everywhere from George Sand's book to my own everyday interactions, is "calma, calma." I hear this every time I work myself into a tizzy or put on the airs of being in any kind of hurry. Essentially it is a short chant to remind the listener to chill out. It is not only the words, but the way in which they are said; the syllables are soft and drawn out, almost a cooing purr. During my recent news induced stress I illuminated Marga to my thinking. She listened indulgently and then smiled, laughed, and invoked the chant. The effects were quick and calming. It felt very nice.
So, now, here I am. I have survived my birthday and Valentine's Day, both days which, to me, present themselves more as existential crisis' than celebrations, and it feels good to be on the other side.

The proximity of my departure date (still TBD) has been impelling me to delve further into the areas of Palma which I have yet to explore. Marga and I are putting together a list of mandatory sites and events to attend before I leave. Today I focused on Museum-ing (free museum Sundays, woot!). I wandered over to the museu d'art modern i contemoprani de Palma. It was a relatively sunny afternoon so I sat outside, on the old city walls and basked and journaled before heading inside.
Granted I am not much of a modern art enthusiast but that does not mean I do not enjoy scrutinizing the massive pieces for fun details, opening myself to the feelings they evoke and wash through me, and studying the modes employed for possible ideas for the things I create. In keeping with the Mallorcan tradition of doting on Miro, there was an entire gallery dedicated to some of his works. The rest of the pieces were monolithic creations in hues of grey and brown, employing dead sunflowers, branches, and swans. Yup, a dead swan strapped to a canvass slopped in textures of grey qualifies as art. It was interesting. I did enjoy the sketchings gallery, containing pieces by the likes of Munch and Kandinsky. There was a sense of intimacy to it.
The museum is an inefficiently arranged network of zig-zagging ramps and rooms which eventually lead out onto the roof. Once you are outside the building you are greeted by a tiny army of plumbing pipe made mice. You follow the ramp on up until you stand looking out over the walls at the city and sea all around you.
The most fascinating aspect of it for me was the contrast of the museum to the ancient city walls into which it is tucked. Smooth, white modern blocks of cement and panes of glass meet the warm, textured stones of the oldest part of the city walls. There was no endeavor to meld the two styles; rather, the contrast was pronounced at every awkward juncture and made the viewer deeply aware of the evolving face of this island's culture. I wandered along the tops of the walls and thought about the guards who, hundreds upon hundreds of years ago, strode those catwalks with such different purpose and mentality.

By the end of it all I was feeling very grown up and illuminated. Although, now that I think about it, the grown-up feeling probably had something to do with the fact that I was wearing a turtle-neck...those always make me feel mature. Either way, it was a good Sunday.