there it was the hostel, gothic point ,teeny tiney, wooden floors and the united nations, breakfast was sahara desert dry mueslis,oranges and toast. i went into over kill.
Montjuic was the epic journey on which me and chucky would rendezvous. ametro ride and yonder stood the MNAC, museum of art.we hurtled up the boulevard then all of a sudden i didnt know it but it was there.a glance right,i know i seen you boy.amaf*ck,barcelona pavilion,it was my guiness beer.it aint no ordnary building, no siree.it is the architectural haj. gleaning walls of marble, cruciform glinting colums,her statue cradled in a pond.i shed a tear.i drooled litres, swam away to the next location. montjuic, the home of the olympic games,it was high,high up in ths sky,chucky nearly died,but i soldiered on,i wasnt carrying him,no sirree.this aint vietnam boy.he was built like a brick sh*t house.
the stadium ,a little japanese man drew it,tadao ando. its domed with a segmented roof, its skinned in fabric, im sure its cool.
perched on a lower tier, the calatrava telecommunications tower, its tangible like a shell,.it was so sharp and glistening i nearly pricked my finger.i snapped and i skecthced,we got back on our horses and to the medieval castle we rode.
the horizon,yonder, the blue ocean sits..
joan miro,was in a white washed building, i paid my tom and stashed my bag, i moseyed around.he uses colour, he uses free hand, he uses sculpture,he's crazy and i like it.
barcelonetta, johan told me it was toit, to get there its down la rambla- a strip heaving with tourists, with muggers and a sewerage stench.its good for macdonals, burger king and a subway too.its seedy its busy, it just aint for me. a walk along the beach, a quick stop in the Catalan history museum,too much knowledge.back on the streets,through little nooks.barcelonetta, its working class, its huddled by the sea, it has long narrow narrow streets tall too.i saw the facteted zig zag, timber clad exteriot of the coderch building.a lil ol d granny enterd.i bought some biscuits and bananas and munched them on the beach,ooh how i miss the beach. in the distance sat frank gehrys Pisce and his 'scraper .i didnt have to peel the sticky pages of a university library book, it was there and i could touch it. and then there she was most gorgeous girl id ever seen.i had to stare,i drooled and swam away.i emerged ffrom the wet and began to walk,to walk until i bled,i wanted to see so i continued. but i couldnt take it any more, i didnt have the poewr,the sun was a setting and an hours walk back would see me
the rain came down,and i swore.but the museums were open.picasso's sits in La ribeira,old royal palace it was.narrow creviced streets, shiny cobbled stones,and postcards at every corner.i was enlightned ,the museum did it for me.picasso painted in a classical style,i never knew it, then he morphed out of sobriety into colour, chaos and intuition. again i could see and touch all that i had seen in books.i moseyed around the gothic area,woa,what an area.its lined with creepy gargolyles,im scared i cry 'mummy'.
action hero knows his come here for the Gaudi stuff,hes been skirting round it like lone ranger the woman he loves.the day is full,he packs his water bottle,and rides rides hard.he shoots a left,in the distance the flowing lines of cassa battlo, aah.the mirrored light refelcting off of her mosaiced face, she has many openings, alien like portals.she is like this growing,organic membrane.its a most dynamoc building as many of gaudi's are.
casa milla,supposdedly his crowning glory, its a monolith, crested in sculpted, twisted turrets,chimneys and framed views.the lines are not straight,where was his ruler. it was a hard ride but a ride that was good for the soul.and oh waht a sight it is,Sagrad Familia.this aint no ordianry building i tell you.its just not the way things are meant to be.it seeems chaotic,yet it has integrity,it has light-much of it.it has height,it is as though g-d himself had one of those wine bottles over which a candle may melt,and after many a candle lit dinner,that wax build up grows into something beautiful. parc Guell, its a park,a massive park, it has grand paths and lil paths,pocked with stoned tunnels and alcoves,colums of sculpted rock,and jazz buskers.it has a plaza,its edge trim, mosaiced seating this aint no ordinary park,a dragon sits at its very entrance.
i had met a few good folk in hostel number one,but since they were leaving, then this lone ranger must ride
so anyhoo i rode until i found myself in a hostel called Kabul.it was absolutely carazy.they had a bar,and we drank,they had beds and we slept alittle bit,they had a pool table and i didnt play,i watched a middle eastern lad nearly tear the felt.they had showers and i did shower,they had breakfast,-an excuse for corn flakes and they had dinner-not as good as my moms bolognaise.i saw a gaudi, 3 of them, casa batllo-it scared me, its alien facades, its mosaicing,its elasticity: casa mila-she was large, she sits on the corner, her monolithic plastic form imposing herself on carrer de garcia. i visited her attic, it was bulbous, free flowing, her paarabolic arched form intrigues. and parc guewll.now that lad is cooked.when i saw his buildings the movie Alien haunted me.i saw an olympic park and i threw my bottle top in the bin, amassive solar powered panel thingy above and a hertzog and de meuron forum.and a skateboard, and the museum of contemporary art.i continued to walk until my feet they did ache,i never ate a tapas,but i had a subway sandwich or two:).i bought trousers i bought tshirts,i saw easy jet and i flew.bbut what a holiday it was,but i think i need another more relaxing vacation. gothic point in the gothic area. it was in a crevice and colured orange,it had an upstairs and another upstairs.,it had timber floors that creaked and rooms without views.i was bed 210D.there were lads in my room that snorred and chicks and oaks that wouldnt shut the f*ck up,there was me in my jeans, the blue kick ass ones, both day and night, sun and in rain..hostels are like camping,
so i wander the streets like the wandering hero looking for action.the streets are twisty and windy, im in the gothic area and im scared, so i buy a bott of water and a cupla nanas, and the pakistani says'watch your bag kiddo, there be some nasty creatures in these parts'.so i blurt;grathias, adious ,strike a match on the wall, light a fag(a play play one) and ride on.
that night i wandered around getting my bearings polished
wednesday morn, i crack open to the creak of a wooden floor board,grip a bowl of the best,a cupla slices o toast and some shyte jam.so i look around,i eye the table it responds and strolls over to me.so i sit down, and chuck the veteran of eyeraq 1, pulls up a chair,we get chatting.typical questions fly-how why? wheres you been?,when was you last home cooked meals?,you carry round a teddy?.so we decide we'll kill the day together and up a mountain we would ride.the Jaume 1 metro was the ride on which our epic journey would begin.no rubber gloves here,for the spanish have flair.Montjuic was the epic journey on which me and compdre, who i was now calling chucky would rendezvous.i didnt know but it was there.a glance right,i know i seen you boy.amaf*ck,barcelona pavilion,it was my guiness beer.it aint no ordnary building, no siree.it is the architectural haj, .it was so sharp and glistening i nearly pricked my finger.the horizon,yonder the blue ocean.since the old cty of Barca is pretty haphazard,little nooks and crevices outta whicj little spaniards and tapas bars emerge.
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