≈ Comments Off on What is the problem with mushrooms?
I read something Ayurveda-related, two years or so ago. It told me mushrooms were the wrong food to eat. Because they emerge from the rot. They are associated with death and decay.
But I adore them.
Of course the kinds of mushrooms I would love to eat are rovellons. My brother just shared a few pics from his lush fungi feast at home, back in Vilassar. The bright orange rovellons on display had been collected by my father in one of his secret early morning excursions into the woods. This is the passionate pursuit of so many pensioners in that area of the Maresme at this time of the year: getting up to the mountains around Vilassar and Cabrils, sigilosamente, making sure no one else knows where they have spotted their stash of setas – rovellons, pets de llop and the rest of it. Every year. Their clandestine pilgrimage into the wet soil, under the leaves, amongst delicious rot, wicker baskets in hand and lots of hush-hushing. They certainly won’t share their precious locations. Their knowledge of where the best, most fruitful forest decay lies, is probably their most valued possession.
Well, my Liverpool mushrooms are, naturally, from Tesco. Or Sainsbury’s. They are boring, they are mass produced. But I still like them. Doused in good quality olive oil I have brought all the way from somewhere nice in Catalunya; tossed with rosemary branches I grow in my terrace; sprinkled with garlic from I do not know where. Very satisfying, all in all.
So, I do not know what’s wrong with mushrooms. But I will keep eating them and thinking of secretive pensioners proudly tip-toeing into the humid mountains, first thing in the morning.
La Havana te embriaga con su exuberancia de buenas a primeras.
¡Chof!
El calor, la humedad te inundan piel y sentidos y ya no hay escape.
Aquí estás, sudando y absorbiendo al tiempo.
Se te salen las neuras y preocupaciones, a chorros o a gotas, mientras te invaden los colores pastel, las tipografías Decó, los agujeros del pavimento, las zarzas y cables que vomitan los muros a tu alrededor, el polvo sepia de tanto palacete urbano, el azul eléctrico de tanta puerta y ventana y auto y lámpara y vestido despampanante que somos cubanos y nos gusta el mar.
Paseas y no es fácil agobiarse. Rodeada de extraños que sudan tanto como tú y te miran y dicen [preguntan, ofrecen] cosas casi todo el rato [taxi | mojito | ¿ya almorzó?] pero nunca molestan. Porque no insisten. Porque van con calma. Con gracia. A un ritmo que funciona, que todavía funciona, porque nadie está agotado del intercambio y la posibilidad de… Visitante, turista, local, afincado, aprovechado, tunante, qué sé yo, aquí estamos todos, echando suerte y paseando y pasando calor; calor, mucha pero con tanta placidez que emborracha. ¿Por qué me siento tan bien tan inmediatamente entre desconocidos?
La Havana no es un parque temático pese a tener pinta de postal. No es un circo pese a las masas crecientes de mirones. No es una trampa pese a los agujeros y las grietas y la mugre [descarada y preciosa] que adivinas tras cada puerta. No es tu imaginación pese a que es imposible no ensoñarse. Lo que ves parece una fantasía nostálgica pero en cambio te rodea y te toca [si te dejas] y te recuerda que es exáctamente lo que tienes delante de tus narices.
Claro que es mejor perderse a seguir el rebaño. Y perdida, La Havana te embriaga aún más. No te permite asustarte; no hay tensión ni amenaza, aunque la quieras buscar. Calles desiertas [pocas] y caras de extraños, son todas intensamente afables, te dejan cómoda y tranquila, pueden ofrecerte un guiño [si te interesa] y si no, pues pásalo bien por tu cuenta que no nos amargaremos. Es un diálogo e intercambio fácil entre mirona y mirado.
La Havana se deja ver, enmarcar y capturar, sin resistencias. Te sonríe y te observa al tiempo. Mientras miras, te cautiva a tí, sin atraparte ni ahogarte.
Sepia y azul. Son los colores dominantes.
>>Un sepia dormilón y oxidado se desangra en fachadas y patios – esos que se caen a trozos, pero con tanto encanto. Es el beso de los huracanes, muchos, que han dejado a esta ciudad despeinada y medio coja pero impregnándola de un glamour [trashy, un tanto bajero y súper-seductor] irresistible.
>>El azul te viene a tortazos. Súper intenso. Enmarcando, acentuando, provocando siempre. Te viene directo y te deslumbra. Azul, azul de ciudad al mar, azul para beberte puertas y ventanas y automóviles. Te atraviesa este azul y te hace pensar ¿por qué hay tan pocas otras ciudades que se atrevan con ello?
Hay mucho pastel también. Muchas casas dulzonas, casi empalagosas, danzando como nubecitas por encima de las chapuzas en sepia, de los cables y las basurillas amontonadas en el rincón de la acera. Y hay mucho chicle. Chicle rosa y fucsia y naranja y verde menta. Sobre ruedas. En technicolor. Para llevarte al malecón y a tu versión particular de los años cincuenta.
Los balcones están abarrotados de ropa y plásticos. Tenderete. Tenderete. Tenderete. Las escaleras de interior se retuercen y se ríen con dientes encariados. ¿Te atreves a subir? ¿Te atreves? ¿Te atreves? Las puertas están siempre enseñando entrepierna. Descaradas. Te invitan a sumergirte en el polvo y suciedad de su vientre. Miro, sin pasar. Voyeur, hechizada. Veo contadores parados. Veo tubos y tuberías. Veo grietas y agujeros. Veo cal desparramada y una lámpara que no ilumina. Veo una fantasía intensa y cansada. Esta casa. Este piso. Este palacio. Veo un espejo. Sillas vacías. Muchas sillas. Medio podridas y tan hermosas que me escuece mirarlas. Qué belleza terrible. ¿Qué me enseñas? No voy a poder hacer nada por tí. Te miro. Gracias. Me encantas. Sigo andando. Gracias. No sé qué puedo darte. Mi sudor, quizás, que brota a borbotones y me hace verte en cámara lenta, oirte tamizada, olerte como se huelen las nieblas.
Rebaño de turistas. Me aparto. Daiquiris a go-go. Almendrones. El Ché [en algodón barato]. Un puro, venga. Botella de ron, pon dos.
Desde la piscina de la atalaya se ve el mar y los bulevares. Los chicos saltan en su patinete, sorteando almendrones color chuchería picante. Las chicas están sentadas, en shorts shortísimos y pony-tail. No oigo lo que dicen. Veo a las señoras en su balcón, sorteando trapos y trastos [tenderete. tenderete]. Veo a los señores parados, pensando, en camisa beige y sombrero. Son gordos y son flacos. Los niños corren siempre, en camiseta de algodón barato [sin Ché]. Veo los depósitos de agua. Azules, azules. Siempre azules. Veo la melena indomable de los cables. Colgando. Trepando. Saliéndose de todo. ¿Hay cuántos? ¿Cuántos, cuantísimos hay? Ay, ay, qué montaña imparable de plástico.
Miro a mi alrededor. Hotel. 5*. Pocas tumbonas. Una banda canturrea y exhibe CDs. Los mojitos van y vienen. La señora a mi lado me sonríe. Bolsa de plástico al lado. Botella de ron, asomando. Sin toalla. Cuatro revistas, en su mano.
No estoy alojada aquí. Vengo a bañarme. Trabajo en Holanda dos meses al año. Vivo en La Habana diez. Veinticinco años así. Viviendo, con nada. Feliz.
Buena vida. Sin nada. Con los trozos de tanto roto en polvo, colgando.
*
Azul y sepia. Con brillos de chicle rosa fluorescente.
I have been working on what I call #tattooingThePage. I grab written books, and I draw lines & circles over their printed text and over their spines. I fold pages and I draw some more, finding never-ending ways of creating new associations and dialogues between old and new inks, printed-text-ink and hand-drawn-ink. It is a wonderful sensation that has allowed me to rediscover books, to read them differently and to enjoy their status as sensuous (often flamboyant) objects as much as their role as humble (and quiet) containers of stories .
Today I thought I’d hack into a catalogue dedicated to Ricardo Basbaum’s work. And I have been surprised by what has happened.
I have loved the paper textures immediately. And the size of the pages – so much larger than any of the novels & poetry collections I have defaced so far. I have started drawing over the credits… then over the introduction by the curator. But then… I have got to the actual works.
Black lines. Single words. Simplified drawings & schemes.
Impossible for me to add anything. I cannot draw black lines over someone else’s black ink drawings! No way.
Interesting feeling.
I wonder how I will feel if I try drawing over photographs.
For now it’s clear: the ink conversations and mergers I need are entirely over black printed text and paper angles.
It’s beyond my control. The hand, the pen (and the page) will keep ordering me around. They know what they want. I’m at their mercy.
Again that oily feeling of peace
looking at foreign water, an artificial lake
perfect black nibbled by long legged insects
reflecting black light and black branches
black stones and black leaves
all so dark and beautiful. so precise. so false.
I am enchanted, drinking my plum wine
in this minutely cold cup, blue and white
and trancelike, to the touch, exquisite.
Such pleasure, by this black fake perfect lake.
Then eating these tiny fungi, immaculate,
still serenaded by insects with long legs,
who are drunk and happy and generous with me
singing, without feathers, dark and brittle
shiny companions in this secret simulated garden
so precious so glitter so hypnotic so Japan so nightime.
Plum lips, cold from kissing this vase
this tiny miracle of a cup I want to marry, merge into, become.
What body! White and blue and ripe porcelain in my mouth
which searches, touches now a fruit, a sin, a wonder.
A fruit turned into this strange flower that breathes dead in my plate
so dead and enticing. I’ll have her please, yes let me.
What skin what velvet to lick and bite and fall for, what fate
inside this magic, this banquet of miniature marvels
so small so small so dark so black so nightime.
With lake with stones with insects who are ripples
who are stars, diamonds flying and chanting with wings
made of crystals, so fragile so tempting. I want them.
A crunch of their flight in my teeth, soaked in plum wine
and naked fruit and fish, yes, now fish like marble
so pearly, so thick, proud and defenceless in my cage.
Covered in petals, this fish, no mercy, no mess.
Perfect creatures, cut, dissected alive for this moment of pleasure.
I swallow and say thank you. I love your white translucent flesh.
You are so vibrant I think you are dancing.
You seduce my tongue my palate my throat this cavern
inside my body that is now your tomb, your bed your temple.
And the music wails. Such sweet agony from ancient time.
I touch the wet cloth. Perfumed. A civilised gesture to mask this carnage,
this botanical feast this battle
of the senses, of the powers, of the ghosts, of the darkness
of the lake so black so precious so fake.
they are roses
they are doors
they are passages
they are words
red fruity burning red
and with the mouths
the nails
the cloth
the waves
the nightmare
your nightmare
but bring back the font
bring in the type
let the mouths mount
become typographic riders
inside the loop, sideways
upsidedown
kissing or licking
the letters, the words
malabarisms in red
some droplets
fall
petals and stones
precious
deep crimson
dirtying the gold
feet becoming leather becoming crust becoming a hard landscape a map of all these years all these roads all these ill advised shoes all of these pilgrimages to nowhere to being lost to escaping and inventing or better reinventing what is around what is inside what is below and everywhere and all of these runs sprints races against time and against the odds against demands that one imposes and follows and rejects and remembers and wants to avoid and hide from but then one returns to because it is all part of the same old big adventure and it is such a dare and such a wonder and it is so beautiful to be seduced by a city and another and it is ever so surprising to look again and realise this is the first time and this place is always new and changing while remaining the same and growing just like one just like me and adapting and embracing and kissing biting my feet that keep walking and racing and dancing along the pavements and the steps and the puddles and the mud that takes you out of the urban and into the absorbing forest and the water and the beach that is here also and is keen to shape and sculpt keep sculpting these feet that are now yes have become ancient creatures with a rugged mind and a body of their own
