Après le tournage (paréntesis catártico)

Hoy viajé en una rebanada de pan con mantequilla y mermelada de arándano de vuelta a la cocina en Travesa Pastoriza, en la bella barcaza arquitectónica que sostiene el laberintismo pseudo urbano de Compostela.

Siempre que desayuno algo que pertenece al hábito ajeno, me convierto momentáneamente en esa persona y mi percepción de la realidad adquiere nuevo plumaje cromático, es genial, pero esto es un fenómeno que sólo ocurre por las mañanas.

Te quería escribir y lo hago así, con las manos llenas de fruta desmembrada y con la tripa interna bañada y absorbida en el líquido más corrosivo que produce, ésta, la dESCONo(D)cIDA glándula del desasosiego. Ese miedo es el que surge para salvaguardarme ante lo inmóvil, ante el silencio de blancos cuerdos que se fuerza a sí mismo como partícipe activo dentro del delirio esquizofrénico de mi pintura. Hoy me encuentro rendida después de una batalla con el insomnio de algodón que me abraza a cuenta gotas, y de cuya fidelidad no soy digna. Cuya fidelidad me genera asco y me quema el vientre con la punta encendida de un cigarro torcido.

Pero lo duro, así, no siempre es desagradable. Lo duro agiliza el sentido de este porvenir envolvente que nos regala un segundo, un paréntesis de apreciación desorbitada contra el sublime que traemos embotellado dentro cada uno de nosotros. Somos seres subyugados al reino orgánico de la entropía disfrazada de un tipo de juicio que, vertido en plomo, nos impide ver el infinito del otro al que tanto reverenciamos sin saberlo.

Me hubiera encantado verte cantar junto con todas esas estrafalarias individualidades, desenvuelta en papiros sonoros de frenesí y fausse note; entre el cráneo partido a la mitad y el acordeón con los dientes de fuera. No había ningún espectador, sino una masa amorfa de psiques dis/ex/tendidas a lo largo del alfombrado compuesto por mosaicos de sangre vieja, según la máxima del juego. 

Así fue como llegué a conocer el mito original que forjó a la humanidad entera, el que aconteció tras un estornudo catastrófico de cabellos de hidrógeno enredado, de helio y de terror marítimo.

Estás atrapada en un suprematismo climático, pero no te dejes manipular por la impresión primera. No caigas en la aporía bífida que tanto derrama las bocas de tus consanguíneos. Mejor piérdete en la soledad tangencial que rige el soberano ubicuo de tu aislamiento americano. Nácete del ojo terrible que surge de esa majestuosidad que te vomita, a manera de ofrenda invertida. Vuélvete hacia y desde ti, ante el más acaudalado e inexorable de los monocromos absolutos. 

Li(e)bre de Beuys. 

Host University, over and out

Dear everything,

I have just finished my last semester in Galicia. Boy, was that a challenge! I guess being part of the Crossways gang secretly implies being able to stretch your limits, far beyond any previous expectation... We're all together, holding each other with our tangled hearts, clutching the edges of our psychologically driven vessels with our bare hands. We're hopelessly enduring the wavy bashes, as the storm washes over our entire conception of anything we've ever learned and pretentiously bragged about knowing afterwards. We're learning to unlearn, which is actually harder than the first bit.

I believe I'd never known love the way it's sucked on my blood it at this age, blended in-along with other pungent factors not necessarily included in the original recipe. For the first time I've felt like my skin isn't flexible enough to contain the whole of my expanding inner planet. It's bursting the canister, ma'am! and that is certainly a disconcerting feeling (or maybe it's just gas). I've never felt more out of control than right now, but I'm letting the current take hold of the steering wheel. Have you ever had "the greenies"? It's kind of like that, but with blueish strokes completing the palette, subtle and dis/comfortingly staring at you from the precipice. Like that killer bunny in that Monty Python movie which I still love. Yeah, that's nothing to do with the point whatsoever, but I won't erase this sentence. Fuck it.

Santiago was an ambivalent experience. Extremely diegetic, I'd say a complete descent into the maelstrom (in every fucking sense): Wagner gone dubstep. But first, let us start with the uni:

At the beginning, you get the feel that nobody knows anything regarding what you're supposed to do. Then, as time passes, you get the impression that people, further and in general, don't really give a flipping rats arse about what you're keenly attempting to be doing (in order to cope with the pseudo logistics of what's required of you as a student). Moments after (talking about months) you realize this is all true... you're on your own, gal! Our local coordinator must have been abducted by infected aliens or something. I don't know, but I'd never been to such ridiculously lousy classes-that unavoidably revealed such a lack of organization on behalf of the academic body. The logistics (or lack thereof) are all driven by economic impairments, as well as with the traumatic remainders of what a dictatorship sponsored by the likes of individuals such as Franco can do to the minds of regular citizens, especially those inhabiting the peripheries (by the way, you MUST watch that video of Franco attempting to speak in English, it is plainly a delight!). The thing we must be reminded of is that we're taking a masters course (to which, I'm investing DOUBLE than my fellow European mateys, just for being exotically Latin: yeah, such is the literal-price for getting to know the workings of the hegemonic "Western thought"), I guess I absolutely had to repeat kindergarten during my late twenties, for some sort of karmic balancing. Life takes very interesting turns, yes it does.

Fortunately, you have the Mundus gang to keep you floating about (although, I must admit it is funny enough to be considered a "challenged" being by your peers/tutors, only because you're foreign and supposedly don't know how master the language...). There was a new generation joining us this last semester, and we had the absolute pleasure of knowing people from all over the place: there were 15 of us in total! MUNDUS OVERLOAD. Besides, like I've been saying all this time: the thing that's really worth about this whole trip has to do with the people you meet along the way. We develop fantastic meta-discussions on Whatsapp over how repeatedly stupid it is to have the SAME class, over and over again (since the teacher is too old to notice that she-herself is becoming an entire analeptic cliché). Very Kafkaesque indeed... but then again, witty in fraganti comments do help you feel better; especially when the figure of authority you're dealing with keeps contradicting him/herself over the projected power point presentation s/he has (obviously not) prepared for class. You feel the need to breathe deeply, or to rip your layers of clothing like a rabid animal. Fortunately one of our gang was a yoga instructor, so we had our extremely useful sessions for calming the fuck down, whenever classes got sketchier in terms of academic proficiency (and everything else, really).

We had the worst time finishing essays during Christmas break. I'd never had the pleasure of visiting the ER in the South of Spain (due to excess of stressing over bullshit exams). It is a very fulfilling experience, if you must ask: you hear all sorts of conversations mostly dealing with old people trying to hit on young panic-attacked ladies, etc. However the food is amazing and the company is very enjoyable: people are more keen on dancing and singing, which reminded me of my dear own homeland... people in the North are more distant, for some reason (I mean, don't get me wrong, they can be rather nice, but the spacey human-relation thing does make you feel quite lonely from time to time). 

On the other hand, Santiago is stupidly pretty in the Spring and in the Summer: we had our share of endless picnics in the many parks that appeared to be exploding with colour and delight! I met loads of interesting people, including my lovely tutor (one of the many exceptions to the negligent majority), and therefore I leave grateful... missing caldo gallego and stuffy tapas from San Clemente. I shall keep you in my heart, dear Saint Jacques.

Perpignan is next... let's see what's up with that.