Literati! Our most loyal Parisianne Modert enters the arena again. We never want this contest duende! But duende, it must, midnight July 15th. Parisianne offers this fireside legend.
Alejandro’s Duende Passing
by Parisianne Modert
“Duende is an obsessive spirit-transmigration, inheritance etched from the dying upon the living, one Andalusian tortured artist into the next as raging flash flood, floating moonlit ghost, goring bull horns, swishing cape and bull-spears piercing the flesh.
As a young man, I traveled southern España cradled by the Mediterranean at Málaga, kissed by the Atlantic’s Portugal, awed by Moorish Seville, mountainous Granada, Byzantine Córdoba and Arabian Alcazaba of Almería with yellow full moon over the Alhambra.
You see me as Alejandro, twisted as is a stripped, winded-tree, but I lived freely before my heart attack released my agonized obsession into my five year old grandson, Rodrigo, whom I had met only a moment before. My guitar, palos and duende became his as I ascended with my reaper.
Duende is light and dark, seductive magic raping any resistance. Passion blurs into the obsession of humming strings, lamenting voices, pounding heels in dance for blood must spurt in the bull ring to murder innocence.
I lost my elderly passion to this obsessive duende on a 2 am train eastward escaping from Seville, carrying its dreaming riders. Sleeplessly I wandered the swaying corridors reaching the club car, apparently silent and abandoned. I slid the windowed door open to flamenco guitar strings moaning as a gnostic ghost intentionally pulling me seductively towards it. There stood a phantomesque man, solemn as a nameless tombstone. The moonlight painted the rocking club car with brushed glimpses of him while swinging silver scythes at our faces, torsos and his guitar.
Our bodies flash flooded rushing energies becoming only my possession before his reaper claimed his hollowed-out soul. This sorrowful palos that you hear was never mine alone for I had to release it forward to my five year old grandson, Rodrigo on my own last silvery night. Rodrigo had to claim my heart’s mission, losing his own innocence so that this duende could live on in his string hum, lamenting voice, thunder of dancing heels, snorting of wild horses, a matador’s waving cape and charge of the ringed bull raging onward again and again.”