outside my bedroom window are turning yellow, ravenous yellow!teach me how to boogie, teach me, teach me how to boogie (to peruvian cumbia) so im reading muriel barbery’s new book in spanish; im not sure if it’s been published in english yet. anyways, it’s called gourmet rhapsody and i love it. the narrator describes sushi as (in my translation): “the texture is like velvet dust in the confines of chilled silk…it conserves a density of milk that the clouds can only dream of” and goes on describe the flavor of salmon and octopus, etc. i miss fish and the genius primitive of eating raw foods.
Archive for April, 2011
(emilie clark) i was feeling melancholic and like i wanted to be wandering in oxford or something but yesterday was a great day and it made it all better. because it involved listening to tupac and i sat on the handlebars of the bike while grant did the pedaling in caballito and i got my bottom bruised because of all the cobble stones in that area (i love working class neighborhoods)! i stopped to eat a pastry that had honey and raisins and was better than any cinnamon bun i’ve had. the sun set and we stumbled upon a street called ‘calle olaya’. imagine that! (gregory crewsdon)
at night sadye, sam and i went to an insane gypsy festival concert, babel orkesta, at konex. it was a shitshow of gypsy music/swing music/alternative/a million trombones and trumpets/drum banging and tango. the performers were wearing silly costumes and there was lots of jumping and flailing about in circles and yelling and doing pirouettes. then we ate empanadas and passed out in a cab. more to come (new obsession: denis darzacq who has an incredible take on the ‘jumping’ photo. he uses dancers and break dancers to form wonderful photos)
este cacho de pizza
que como con la mano
se parece tanto a mi alma
un triángulo irregular
chorreando por todos lados(ruben brulat, that’s a person)appropriate because i havent shaved my legs since nina’s new years eve party. i want a beer and a hubby on a couch w/ me this has always been my favorite short
body, remember not only how much you were loved
not only the beds you lay on.
but also those desires glowing openly
in eyes that looked at you,
trembling for you in voices-
only some chance obstacle frustrated them.
now that it’s all finally in the past,
it seems almost as if you gave yourself
to those desires too-how they glowed,
remember, in eyes that looked at you,
remember, body, how they trembled for you in those voices(elizabeth weinberg)
i just spent 1o days in the provinces of salta/jujuy (bordering chile and bolivia). i feel like a renewed person. i know what life is about and it’s about making one’s own goat cheese, looking in awe at the dusty splendor in the black sky (stars, lots of stars), dogs barking and clothes drying on adobe roofs, and the selfless generosity of strangers.
it is women with hunched backs, canyon wrinkles in their dulce de leche skin, large sacks embroidered deep violet and yellows, inside pounds of sweet potatoes. it is a flirty sixteen year old girl, sipping one of her first beers and fluttering her eyelashes at a gelled-mulleted-eyebrow-pierced boy. her tummy is warm dough, her breasts pressing out of her bejweled satin top.
it is mind-blowing landscape. foggy green turns to thirsty browns and then brick reds mirror a sunset.
it is cumbia music pumping out of every car and corner store. it is the music of the andes: the sikus and charango played by every local.
it is chewing coca as we’re on our 6th hour hiking up a mountain.
it is the appreciation for mother nature. taking care and celebrating the land. every city and town we stepped in had a monument/statue dedicated to ‘the mother’. the maternal figure is at every heart.
it is my birkenstock tan. my birks that survived stones, cactus spikes, bull shit (actually poop from a bull). they gave me equilibrium.
it is a house with earth for ground and undulated tin for roof.
it is humitas: ground up corn, soft and creamy with goat cheese inside. a present wrapped up in corn husks. the humita is sweet, but it’s older brother, the tamal is a bit more aggressive. the tamal has juicy meat inside, raisins, a bit of egg, and all those red salty juices dye the parcel a warm orange. don’t forget the empanadas with quinoa and chopped up onion, cheese, llama. and some fernet and cocacola for digestion.
now i know what life is about. it’s not about counting money, about your haircut, your routine, it’s not about writing this blog. when dfwallace wrote that commencement speech he starts with an anecdote: “one fish says to another, ‘how’s the water?’. the fish responds ‘what water?”. there are too many fishes that dont know there is water around them. i discovered some water on this trip.