{"id":24941,"title":"Catching On the Fly","description":"Writer, Rebecca W Morris, and Photographer, Matteo Delred, capture thoughts and images at the train stops from Jerez de la Frontera to Cadiz on the Cercanias trainline. For each stop, one piece of writing is written and one photo is chosen. Seeing the same things they\u2019d seen so many times, but with new eyes.","content":"

Writer, Rebecca W Morris, and Photographer, Matteo Delred, capture thoughts and images at the train stops from Jerez de la Frontera to Cadiz on the Cercanias trainline. For each stop, one piece of writing is written and one photo is chosen. Seeing the same things they\u2019d seen so many times, but with new eyes.<\/p>

Jerez de la Frontera<\/h3>

\"awc3g2axixmpgbeie8xddn2731fn15zredobt8jjk8uvt9it.jpeg\"<\/u><\/a>The\u00a0centre\u00a0of town on a Saturday morning in Jerez de la Frontera.\u00a0<\/p>

I can hear at least two or three different types of\u00a0birdsong; the woman selling lottery tickets playing radio pop. The clinking and tapping inside the cafeteria Los Reyes. People talking with calm. The same loud urgency as usual doesn\u2019t exist in the voice when the fog of heat approaches.\u00a0<\/p>

Today it will hit the hottest summer temperatures so far. There is a slow, sluggishness to the morning. I enjoy the calm. A guitar rumba has come on the radio and the woman selling tickets claps along with rhythm on her body and the chair.\u00a0<\/p>

I always like the energy of the women in this cafeteria. A gruff warmth. A subtle flicker of the eye,\u00a0recognising\u00a0us, and letting us know with the pitch of their voice and the way they set down the coffees.\u00a0<\/p>

I see a flamenco singer walking past with her husband and dog. She is much changed. She is clutching a bag of donuts and wearing what looks like nightclothes.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>

Time is not linear here. Things change but no one blinks an eye. Tomorrow is as if it were\u00a0yesterday.\u00a0<\/p>

El Puerto de\u00a0Santa Maria<\/strong><\/h3>

\"socafyodlwlehnwg3u2flbueqaa5smaygwimph5har7iacet.jpeg\"I start the day missing my family.<\/p>

An old British couple\u00a0<\/p>

who dress like the approximation of what a British couple would dress like\u00a0<\/p>

are sat with their son or daughter and their partner.<\/p>

They are pierced and dyed and tattooed and shaved - the beauty of two worlds colliding.\u00a0<\/p>

The black against the pressed chinos, the glint of silver through cartilage against the linen white shirt, the cardigan draped over fragile shoulders -\u00a0<\/p>

that delicate loving union, the familiar hushed tones.<\/p>


<\/p>

I enjoy being invited into someone\u2019s world -<\/p>

From afar.\u00a0<\/p>

Then I can know how i feel caked between their colours.\u00a0<\/p>

Tracing fingers through ink,\u00a0<\/p>

wondering if it was your hand that made it,\u00a0<\/p>

touched the paper.\u00a0<\/p>

I missed the details at first as I so often do.\u00a0<\/p>

I like to let the overall idea wash over me -\u00a0<\/p>

But he took me back and I looked closer.\u00a0<\/p>

I like to look again to see if I can know you better.\u00a0<\/p>

The beauty of discovering the other.\u00a0<\/p>

I like to step slowly around the edges\u00a0<\/p>

without the noise and echoes of chatter.\u00a0<\/p>

I paint the picture with you.\u00a0<\/p>

Interacting and communing with footsteps,<\/p>

artefacts and materials.<\/p>

In between you and the world of trees and the people\u00a0that were here before me.<\/p>

<\/p>

Percussion canon fires in an ancient castle.<\/p>

Tinny sounds from a small screen in a courtyard.\u00a0<\/p>

The birds you can always hear, but the sounds are imitations.<\/p>

They rise above but do not bring meaning or context.<\/p>

So many noises that could be made but so many reproduced from others.<\/p>

The unique sound of oneself is so hard to locate.\u00a0<\/p>

And plastic strips slap on stone.<\/p>

Alien wails and dove coos.<\/p>

I feel it vibrate beneath my feet.<\/p>

We sit and wait for the end.<\/p>

Las Aletas<\/strong><\/h3>

\"kysnz6trc0egmjqkdngbon6puj3bhvhv0r276gqfgvmhxhqt.jpeg\"<\/p>

Irritation at the station<\/p>

the sensation of words always flowing too freely<\/p>

juxtaposed with silence.<\/p>


<\/p>

Well, it wasn\u2019t what I expected.\u00a0<\/p>

I thought about the Marshlands - that stretch from Walthamstow to Hackney.<\/p>

The geese migrating in.<\/p>


<\/p>

Run chicken, run chicken, run, run, run.\u00a0<\/p>

I didn\u2019t know their necks\u00a0were so red, long and sleek.<\/p>

Clucking, gentle introverts hiding in trees.\u00a0<\/p>

When a cat approaches I wait for the violence.\u00a0<\/p>

On alert. Ready to intervene.<\/p>

The grey cat curls up in the long grass under a branch.\u00a0<\/p>

The chickens circle happily.<\/p>


<\/p>

We always have one foot in our surroundings, the other foot somewhere else.\u00a0<\/p>

We hear the birds, the wind, the clucks, bike wheels on gravel.<\/p>

I remember jumping out the window of my friend\u2019s crazed ex boyfriend\u2019s house.\u00a0<\/p>

We remember the time everyone laughed hysterically in a work zoom call.\u00a0<\/p>

A failed greeting to a friend the other day as I rushed to the station.\u00a0<\/p>


<\/p>

Wild ideas can come from nothing.<\/p>

Boredom. Sameness. Predictability.\u00a0<\/p>

We see a floating hat, an exploding egg, hands dancing to tell a story.\u00a0<\/p>

We think about why people find violence beautiful.\u00a0<\/p>

Puerto Real<\/strong><\/h3>

\"taqtkl4cx7hin5dj0d8ctdt6hkhdriz6uhahnn5y5snztgdz.jpeg\"I think I knew this place existed\u00a0<\/p>

I could have imagined it, but at the same time I couldn\u2019t have.\u00a0<\/p>

You know the kind of places I mean?\u00a0<\/p>

I knew I would see the Virgin Mar\u00eda at the fishmonger\u2019s stall\u00a0<\/p>

\u00a0inked onto old tiles in an antiquated market.\u00a0<\/p>

The silver fish sleek and curled in shiny rows \u2013\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>

truly biblical.\u00a0<\/p>

The beach isn\u2019t really a beach.\u00a0<\/p>

There is\u00a0mud and wooden fishing boats nestled.\u00a0<\/p>

In seaside towns surfaces must be weathered\u00a0<\/p>

and paint must be chipped.\u00a0<\/p>

There is not the pressure to paint over and over the cracks\u00a0<\/p>

as there is in the city.\u00a0<\/p>

A man in small neon shorts and tall wellies rummages\u00a0<\/p>

in the mud picking crabs.\u00a0<\/p>

He is balletic, bent over awkwardly.\u00a0<\/p>

The tide comes in and toes dabble at the frothing shore.\u00a0<\/p>

A woman, stooped over too, washes her plump calves -\u00a0<\/p>

engaged in a healing ritual.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>

Friends call each other \u2018guapa!\u2019 across the wind -\u00a0<\/p>

and one woman, striding along the beach,\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>

shouts to her friends that the tide is coming in.\u00a0<\/p>

Yet no one has a sense of urgency.\u00a0<\/p>

San Fernando<\/strong><\/h3>

\"fviu10qxpabv7hbebkcsru0scjdw4hssyv7neam2dtyo1fxp.jpeg\"Lose the shame in San Fernando<\/p>

You can be gay in San Fernando<\/p>

Ring yer bell in San Fernando<\/p>

Let it hang out in San Fernando<\/p>

Dance in a darkroom por tangos<\/p>

Clutch a lover to your heart -<\/p>

It's San Fernando!<\/p>

They laugh. We laugh.<\/p>

The guiri lady<\/p>

White as white<\/p>

- She doesn't go to the beach<\/p>

They say!<\/p>

Says she is from Jerez<\/p>

But they know she's not.<\/p>

- Venga!<\/p>

- Cuidate!<\/p>

- Hasta luego!<\/p>

Blow a kiss with each word<\/p>

In San Fernando.\u00a0<\/p>

The poniente runs through San Fernando<\/p>

I just want my moment in San Fernando<\/p>

By the salt marshes<\/p>

Where the fish get fat<\/p>

My friend told me that<\/p>

As we whooshed<\/p>

By on the train<\/p>

To take a paseo in C\u00e1diz centro<\/p>

A different sound to San Fernando<\/p>

You have to be there to know<\/p>

I am humbled to have<\/p>

Been invited to your patio\u00a0<\/p>

Juana Cruz Castro and<\/p>

El rey de los gitanos<\/p>

Carry each smacking palm<\/p>

and foot tap -\u00a0<\/p>

Each sound from San Fernando<\/p>

Kept. Treasured. Wept.<\/p>

Cortadura<\/strong><\/h3>

\"nripzyxobopqr52s6hezl0mtyq6oclmnunk6ddqlkv95mi0w.jpeg\"We were limp\u00a0anaemic\u00a0shrimps\u00a0<\/p>

Buried deep in the ocean\u2019s\u00a0bed.\u00a0<\/p>

These days we begin to crawl to shore\u00a0<\/p>

On delicate sea legs.\u00a0<\/p>

We arrived at\u00a0Cortadura\u00a0<\/p>

And the sea roared over our heads.\u00a0<\/p>

People clustered around like crabs\u00a0<\/p>

On the rocks at\u00a0Valdelagrana\u00a0<\/p>

Picking the algae and supping the salt\u00a0<\/p>

Confident and full-bodied in the tumult.\u00a0<\/p>

We retreat to the rocks -\u00a0<\/p>

He makes\u00a0primitive\u00a0stone sculptures.\u00a0<\/p>

I take breaths with the ocean\u00a0<\/p>

My heart thudding inside its foamy\u00a0breast.\u00a0<\/p>

Before we\u00a0arrived\u00a0we took our usual detour\u00a0<\/p>

Running across a motorway -\u00a0<\/p>

Ni\u00f1os\u00a0gamberos\u00a0playing chicken.\u00a0<\/p>

We went for breakfast beside a large funeral\u00a0parlour\u00a0<\/p>

The bar had a huge mirror behind it.\u00a0<\/p>

Written\u00a0on it was:\u00a0<\/p>

CELEBRATIONS\u00a0<\/p>

WEDDINGS\u00a0<\/p>

BAPTISMS\u00a0<\/p>

COMMUNIONS\u00a0<\/p>

COMPANY\u00a0DINNERS\u00a0<\/p>

In Castellano.\u00a0<\/p>

I knew the function that was not listed\u00a0<\/p>

Was staring us in the face -\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>

The building across the road.\u00a0<\/p>

In Spain, funerals happen almost overnight\u00a0<\/p>

The grieving process, the other way around -\u00a0<\/p>

The sharp shock of loss\u00a0experienced together.\u00a0<\/p>

C\u00e1diz<\/strong><\/h3>

\"7pbk4ccz5gttc3imucehkfmdia6dgjkgc205rvv8jbbcjjlp.jpeg\"I\u2019m conscious that it\u2019s the end of the line\u00a0<\/p>

but we don\u2019t make space for endings.\u00a0<\/p>

We hold them quiet in our hearts\u00a0<\/p>

spill them in private libations by fountains\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>

or secret night sweats.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>

I see people standing\u00a0<\/p>

poised, in squares.\u00a0<\/p>

Actors on the grand stage of Romanesque C\u00e1diz.\u00a0<\/p>

They look up, still, at the sky\u00a0<\/p>

but all in different directions.\u00a0<\/p>

Waiting for summer to die\u00a0<\/p>

that relief of release\u00a0<\/p>

though not knowing what to do\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>

when it comes.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>

I stop, and wait a while, but\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>

Nothing.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>

I see stones inscribed with names\u00a0<\/p>

in\u00a0Moroccan\u00a0gardens. One\u00a0says\u00a0<\/p>

\u201cPoeta\u201d.\u00a0<\/p>

I want to project myself into the future\u00a0<\/p>

stand ancient and naked with them\u00a0<\/p>

shoulder to shoulder.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>

I have looked for someone to tell me\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>

the stories I know.\u00a0<\/p>

But only I can tell my story.\u00a0<\/p>

He tells me he\u2019d rather be a migratory bird\u00a0<\/p>

than a seagull.\u00a0<\/p>

I think that it must be hard to be a bird of prey.\u00a0<\/p>

Always circling. Always hunting.\u00a0<\/p>

The dominant admiral of the sky.\u00a0<\/p>

Admired and unknown.\u00a0<\/p>

The circle will go on.\u00a0<\/p>

I will repeat this journey again and again.\u00a0<\/p>

Every time\u00a0I\u2019ll notice something\u00a0new.<\/p>","urlTitle":"catching-on-the-fly","url":"\/blog\/catching-on-the-fly\/","editListUrl":"\/my-blogs","editUrl":"\/my-blogs\/edit\/catching-on-the-fly\/","fullUrl":"https:\/\/lostcampitos.com\/blog\/catching-on-the-fly\/","featured":false,"published":true,"showOnSitemap":true,"hidden":false,"visibility":null,"createdAt":1676626116,"updatedAt":1706286271,"publishedAt":1706286271,"lastReadAt":null,"division":{"id":209850,"name":"Lost Campitos"},"tags":[{"id":2797,"code":"rebecca","name":"Rebecca","url":"\/blog\/tagged\/rebecca\/"},{"id":2886,"code":"matteo","name":"Matteo","url":"\/blog\/tagged\/matteo\/"}],"metaImage":{"original":"https:\/\/images.podos.io\/hxf4vqbdejmlykd3ffgu1m8pfwvwi6xgvo0kqtnu50cygkce.jpeg","thumbnail":"https:\/\/images.podos.io\/hxf4vqbdejmlykd3ffgu1m8pfwvwi6xgvo0kqtnu50cygkce.jpeg.jpg?w=1140&h=855","banner":"https:\/\/images.podos.io\/hxf4vqbdejmlykd3ffgu1m8pfwvwi6xgvo0kqtnu50cygkce.jpeg.jpg?w=1920&h=1440"},"metaTitle":"Catching On the Fly","metaDescription":"Capturing thoughts and images at the train stops from Jerez de la Frontera to Cadiz on the Cercanias trainline.","keyPhraseCampaignId":null,"series":[],"similarReads":[{"id":24851,"title":"Love","url":"\/blog\/love\/","urlTitle":"love","division":209850,"description":"Artist Matteo Delred and writer Rebecca Mar\u00eda reflect on love. Exploring different types of love, as defined by the Ancient Greeks.","published":true,"metaImage":{"thumbnail":"https:\/\/images.podos.io\/umrjnxs7qyv4mmajjpiopam85mxhwjzxx4c4dkt4pztfvz5q.jpeg.jpg?w=1140&h=855","banner":"https:\/\/images.podos.io\/umrjnxs7qyv4mmajjpiopam85mxhwjzxx4c4dkt4pztfvz5q.jpeg.jpg?w=1920&h=1440"},"hidden":0},{"id":25084,"title":"Listening To the Birdsong From My Caged Window","url":"\/blog\/listening-to-the-birdsong-from-my-caged-window\/","urlTitle":"listening-to-the-birdsong-from-my-caged-window","division":209850,"description":"Matteo Delred and Rebecca W Morris capture the urban melancholy of being separated from the natural world through poetry and photography.","published":true,"metaImage":{"thumbnail":"https:\/\/images.podos.io\/7txvyg55ntk060bcks3mlugsnxi48onvirhfqfsftpnzp0ov.jpeg.jpg?w=1140&h=855","banner":"https:\/\/images.podos.io\/7txvyg55ntk060bcks3mlugsnxi48onvirhfqfsftpnzp0ov.jpeg.jpg?w=1920&h=1440"},"hidden":0},{"id":25247,"title":"Entra en el Sue\u00f1o","url":"\/blog\/entra-en-el-sueno\/","urlTitle":"entra-en-el-sueno","division":209850,"description":"Rebecca W Morris and Matteo Delred's exploration of the phenomenon of dreaming through visual ideas, sound experiments, and extracts from a dream journal highlights the rich and complex nature of our dreaming experiences. Through their creative approach, they capture the surreal, fragmented, and often mysterious quality of dreams.","published":true,"metaImage":{"thumbnail":"https:\/\/images.podos.io\/hiuae6enirguo6dze8heulbsiv7sgpsumldft1jcd1m6n9cl.jpeg.jpg?w=1140&h=855","banner":"https:\/\/images.podos.io\/hiuae6enirguo6dze8heulbsiv7sgpsumldft1jcd1m6n9cl.jpeg.jpg?w=1920&h=1440"},"hidden":0}],"labels":[]}