viernes, 22 de agosto de 2014

PLACERES DE GUANAJUATO_01 / GUANAJUATO PLEASURES_01


Placeres de Guanajuato / Guanajuato Pleasures
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Queridos todos:
Hace rato que se me ocurrió la idea de girar un pequeño escrito esporádico compartiendo unas cosas que estoy disfrutando –ya sea temporal o menos temporalmente – digo, la vida de por sí es temporal, ¿no? ¡Carpe Diem!— aquí en la ciudad de Guanajuato donde tengo la gran dicha de radicar. 
Por fin, después de numerosas e inexplicables demoras, lo hago. 
Por supuesto que varios amigas y amigos están haciendo algo parecido de tal tamaño han sido los cambios en nuestra hermosa ciudad (aunque orgánicos, por lo general, creo) … y además, como bien saben los que me conocen, tengo el hábito de volverme algo hermitaña entre giras y así no me entero de la nueva sensación; … así que yo escribo todo esto primordialmente en el espíritu de compartir mis propios placeres, que es lo que hay que hacer con ésos, ¿verdad? -- sean del paladar, del oído, del corazón … lo que sea … en lugar de estar la Primera en Compartir la Nueva Movida.
Examinando mis propios gustos, me doy cuenta de que muchas de estas cosas que disfruto son muy de Slow Food: es decir, provienen de fuentes locales, los ingresos que generan se devuelven a la gente de aquí y no van a dar con los bolsillos de corporaciones que no tienen ninguna conexión o compromiso con Guanajuato.  Entre otros factores, pero baste empezar con éstos.
A mi ver, en México estamos en una posición única: sin entrar en más detalles, podemos aprender de los errores y los éxitos tanto de los de al norte como de los de al sur y elegir, de tener la valentía, nuestro propio camino.  Tenemos una dieta ancestral –por mencionar sólo una cosa— que es entre las más sanas del planeta, suponiendo que no nos dejemos corromper del todo por la Coca. Tenemos una de las panoramas de artes escénicas más vibrantes y creativos del planeta y un gobierno que --hasta la fecha-- apoya al arte y al transporte público (ojalá y así siga).  Digo, sean los que sean  nuestros otros problemas, que no son cosa baladí pero bueno: otro día.
Como me encantan los placeres de la mesa, es lógico que la gran mayoría de las cosas que aquí menciono tienen que ver con la comida. Pero no todas. Quizás sería mejor decir que son placeres de cualquier tipo que me interesan: tanto corporales como mentales, incluso a veces espirituales. Entonces, va el primer número de Placeres de Guanajuato / Guanajuato Pleasures.  ¡Ojalá y no sea el único!
Quisiera empezar por decir que hace tres años y medio, recuperé mi sentido de gratitud por radicar aquí.  Bueno, no lo había perdido exactamente, pero tampoco –entre una cosa y otra- estaba del todo presente en mí.  Tengo un recuerdo muy nítido de mi deseo de tener de nuevo esa sensación de extraordinaria dicha que tenía durante todo el año Fulbright-García Robles, que fue mi primer año aquí. 
Como a veces sucede, sin ni siquiera pensarlo mucho, tan sólo con desearlo, sucedió.  Y ¿sabes qué, querido lector? – mejor que mejor: las cosas que en ese momento estaban sucediendo aquí fueron cosas que hace 15 años (sí, parece mentira pero llegué aquí en agosto del 1999) eran un sueño o de pleno imposibles. 
Yo sé que nos queda un trecho aquí en esta Ciudad Patrimonio –y ¡caramba!, no es un trecho pequeño— pero sin embargo, ciertas cosas aquí se han mejorado.  Por citar dos: hay menos perro callejero –gracias principalmente, me parece, a la labor titánica de organizaciones como Amigos de los Animales— y por lo tanto, menos excremento canino en las calles. 
Estoy segura que no es del todo desconectado de la cuestión del perro callejero que hay más actividad económica local.  Digo, yo hablo no sólo del micro-local de Xocolate en la Plaza del Baratillo y del taller de joyería escultórica de Cathie Gielis (naturalizada mexicana de su natal Bélgica) sino también de mujeres campesinas con productos de nopal, de otras mujeres con jabones elaborados de forma artesanal. Incluso de las mujeres en el Mercado Hidalgo que antes vendían sus quesos en bolsas de plástico como si nada y ahora los venden con una etiquetita.  Esto no es señal de gentrificación: al contrario, es señal de orgullo en su propia labor y sus resultados. Ellas, al menos, empiezan a evitar esta terrible tendencia que tenemos, de infravalorar nuestro propio capital humano.
En otro escrito hablaré de las cuestiones sociales y sociológicas, al menos de las de mi barrio, que es el único que conozco. Está muy presente todo esto por el proyecto de barrio que tuve con nuestra Asociación Vecinal que hace poco se entregó.  Próximamente …
Pero por ahora, a lo que te trujo Chencha …
Los Campos: ¿Hay mejor ejemplo de la ensalada cosmopolita que es nuestra ciudad? Difícil imaginárselo: ella, Chef, mexicana de tierras hidrocálidos (o sea, querido lector, de Aguascalientes) y él (somelier) de Canadá anglófono.  La comida es de una imaginación y una inventividad asombrosas. Por no mencionar la presentación, que es una delicia, y que delata totalmente el orgullo que esta pareja-equipo tiene en su creación gastronómica. 
Y otra cosa: la primera vez que yo fui, me llamó poderosamente la atención que usan SERVILLETAS DE TELA (¡¡luces, bomba y platilla!!).  Servilletas de tela, queridos lectores, piénsanlo: esto significa para un restaurante una disminución épica de basura.  Además de que es mil veces, repito MIL VECES, más agradable, placentero y civilizado.  El CAVEAT ÚNICO, y digo el ÚNICO, es que a estas fechas todavía no tienen su licencia de bebidas alcohólicas.  Parece mentira pero desgraciadamente así es.  [Aquellos con palanca en Presidencia, ¡¡A LA CARGA POR FAVOR!!] De ser permitido, les diría que traigan sus botellas de tequila y mezcal fino, de ron y de vino … y de alguna manera se procuraría servirlos.  Pero esto no es permitido, de manera que no lo digo. 
El deleite que es Los Campos se encuentra apenas subiendo del Baratillo: con espaldas a Cantarranas y a la fuente, se ve como una “Y”. Por el ramal izquierdo se llegará a la Compañía.  Por el ramal derecho, al “callejón de las verduras”.  Allí, y de inmediato se ve su portal.  Por lo pronto abren tipo 15:00 (3PM) hasta tipo 22:00 (10PM).
Xocolate: A apenas cinco metros de Los Campos es El Lugar del Chocolate: Xocolate, en una ortografía entre su nativo náhuatl y castellano.  Y es prácticamente un lugar sagrado, mis queridos. Chocolates varios: barras de chocolate desde el blanco hasta el 95% cacao, ¡no miento! Cuando abrieron sus puertas hace unos tres años, dijo mi querida amiga y colaboradora la renombrada poeta Lirio Garduño, ¡La civilización ha llegado a Guanajuato! Olvídense, todos que pasen por estas puertas, de Godiva Chocolates.  Nada que ver. Baste con decir que en un reciente visita me enteré de unas nuevas variedades, entre ellas un chocolate amargo con vinagre balsámico y no recuerdo qué más; y otro de chocolate de leche con epazote y … no lo revelo, sólo digo que por lo general para mí el chocolate de leche no es chocolate pero en este caso hago una muy grata excepción. Y el siempre asombroso chocolate con Chipotle, ayayay madre mía. Yo cuando tengo que administrarme estrechamente me compro una rueda del chocolate de mesa y en lugar de hacer chocolate lo como, con el mayor placer del mundo, mmmmhhh.
Frutería Torres Hmnos, a.k.a. la Frutería del Baratillo, a.k.a. la frutería del moreno: Todo mundo ya debe de saberlo, pero para las pocas personas que no … hace tres años que en la primavera aparece en esta frutería espárragos; mora azul; mora; ahora kale (que es un repollo cuyo nombre en castellano se  me escapa) … y muchas otras cosas.  Además de la extensa y rica selección de frutas y verduras de siempre; dependiendo, por supuesto, la estación. 
Me llama la atención que aquí aparecen estas verduras.  Hace 10 años, en San Miguel Allende para un concierto, vi pasar en la calle unos señores vendiendo espárragos.  Seguramente, pensé, por los extranjeros allá que lo piden.  Pero aquí ni huella, sólo en la Comercial o en la Mega en 120 pesos el kilo, algo así.  Hasta que apareció allá con el More  en el Baratillo—válgame, espárragos a eso de 70 o 80 pesos el kilo, y digo, de una frescura increíble, como si vinieran de tu propia hortaliza. Allí siguen. Considéranse avisados.
Entre otras cosas, esto me llama la atención porque esta frutería no surte a alguna población gringa o adinerada –de todas formas la gran mayoría de la población gringa aquí está mejor dotada intelectual que financieramente— no mis queridos, esta frutería vende a nacionales, y creo que no hay nadie allí que hable una palabra de otro idioma que el castellano.  Los extranjeros que se ven en esta frutería compran allí porque saben que la verdura y fruta es mil veces mejor que la que se vende –marchitada y con precios carísimos— en los sitios supuestamente más cómodos para extranjeros, o sea la Comercial o la Mega.  Que --¡caramba, soy la primera en decirlo!-- tienen sus usos … pero la verdura fresca, local y deliciosa no suele ser uno de ellos.
O sea, queridos amigos, esto es lo nuestro.  Compran aquí, en estos lugares, en estos negocios, atesórenlos.
La Puerta roja: Pan, y buenérrimo En primer lugar, como han de saber, a veces me pongo en Plan Hermitaña.  A veces no estoy, porque tengo conciertos en otras partes del planeta; y luego cuando llego, estoy preparándome para la siguiente salida, o descansando.  Pasé buena parte de febrero a junio descansando del intensísimo año pasado  --si quieren más detalles consulta varias entradas en este mismo blog, empezando tipo mediados del 2012.  Así que fue hasta tipo mayo que un buen día, paseándome por Sangre de Cristo, que se me cayó el veinte de algo nuevo allí.  Caramba, me digo, ¡una panadería!  Creo que esa primera vez ni entré, pero poco después, sí.  
Es un lugar padrísimo, como aquí se dice: Uno de esos edificios antiguos pero medio humildes, un espacio acogedor, a escala humana, de esos que no se puede imitar, ¿ves?  Han hecho lo mínimo al espacio, de manera muy respetuosa.  Ofrecen un par de ensaladas y sopas, varios baguettes, comida ligera.  Confieso que no he probado esta otra comida, solo el pan.
Porque ofrecen una bien cuidada selección de panes, todos hechos con masa madre, o sea en inglés sourdough, natural yeast, la levadura que se hace de harina, un poco de miel o azúcar, y el aire, mis queridos, los milagrosos microbios del aire porque allí sí que vienen microbios que hacen –o se convierten en- levadura.  Este proceso requiere de mucha paciencia y es muchísimo menos seguro que abrir un sobre de levadura … pero los resultados son de veras maravillosos.  En pocas palabras, es aún otro proceso artesanal.
¿Ves?: esto es lo nuestro. 
Masaje, a.k.a. las asombrosas Hermanas Flores  … y sus salsas.  Hace un par de meses pasé a la frutería del Baratillo y al lado vi a las Asombrosas Hermanas Flores. Que, asombrosamente y con su acostumbrada tenacidad e imaginación, habían abierto otro lugar.  Son rebuenas masajistas, fueron las primeras aquí (que yo sepa) y parece que no se dan por vencidas, nunca. Allí puedes buscar tu masaje exprés de pies o de espalda, o tu masaje del todo no-exprés de todo el cuerpo.  Ahora tienen, de forma a veces esporádica, unas salsas que son –como aquí se dice—de poca madre.  Una de cacahuate con gengibre, otra como de chile asado con un toquecito de vinagre … más artesanía.  Mis respetos.
Celular: 473 120 05 14
Casa Cuatro: Yoga y Pilates con Tlathui Benavides … y bueno, habiendo dicho todo esto, hay Yoga y Pilates en la Casa Cuatro con Tlathui Benavides, que además de talentosísima bailarina es buenérrima instructora de estas dos disciplinas tan importantes. Y digo, para todos, tengas 20 años o 60, seas hombre o mujer.
También en plena Plaza Baratillo, Centro Bharati: Yoga con Alejandra … .  (¿Ya ven la variedad que ahora tenemos aquí?  Es asombroso.) Y aquí la comida es buena y vegetariana y hay una boutique bastante mono de ropa hindú. ¡¡Mmmhhh!!
Tardía adición: Escarola … en Positos #38, casi frente a la Casa-Museo Diego Rivera.  Apenas inaugura y no he probado la comida; pero ayer, volviendo de llevar a la Azabacha a sus vacunas, nos asomamos y vimos el sitio y la carta.  Hermosos los dos. Se supone que hay opciones de comida incluso veganas; además de platos para carnívoros y vegetarianos.  Me aseguro de comer allí en estos días para dar un informe.

Guanajuato Pleasures

Dear all,
Quite a while ago it occurred to me that it would be fun to send around some sporadic notes sharing things which I am enjoying here in this city of Guanajuato --where I have the great good fortune to live—either temporarily or oh well, less temporarily.  Since life is pretty temporary, right? CARPE DIEM.
Anyway … Finally, after inexplicable delays, I am starting to do this. 
Now, various friends are doing similar things, so extensive have been the changes in our beautiful city (and organic I believe, on the whole) … Those of you who know me know that I turn into a hermit between tours, so I’m not always up on the Very Latest Sensation; thus I can assure you that I write all this in the spirit of sharing these pleasures of mine, which is what we should do with pleasures, right? –be they of the palate, the ear, the heart … whatever; rather than being the First to Discover the Latest Sensation.
I feel that in Mexico we are un a unique position: without going into more detail, we can learn from the successes and the errors of our neighbours to the north as well as to the south; and choose, if we have the courage to do so, our own way.  We have an ancestral diet –to mention just one thing—which is among the healthiest on the planet. We have one of the most vibrant and creative performing arts scenes on the planet; and a government which –so far!—supports the arts and public transport. I mean, whatever its problems in other areas may be: which are not exactly insubstantial … but more on that another day.
Examining my own tastes, I realize that many of these things which I enjoy are very Slow Food: that is, they come from local sources, the income they generate is returned to the people of this place instead of ending up in the pockets of corporations who have neither connection with --nor commitment to-- Guanajuato. That  should do to start with.
And then, since I take great delight in the pleasures of the table, it’s logical that the great majority of the things I mention here have to do with eating.  But not all.  Perhaps it would be better to say that what interest me are pleasures of any kind, corporeal as well as mental; even, sometimes, spiritual.  So here is the first number of these Pleasures of Guanajuato … let’s hope it’s not the only one!
I want to start by saying that some three and a half years ago, I recovered my sense of gratitude at living here.  I mean, I hadn’t lost it exactly, but between one thing and another it wasn’t as present in me as it had been.  I have a very clear memory of intensely desiring to have again that sensation of extraordinary good fortune which I had during the whole Fulbright (more correctly, Fulbright-García Robles) year in Guanajuato, which was my first whole year here.
As sometimes happens, without thinking about it much, just wanting it, it happened. And you know what, dear reader? – better yet: the things which are now happening here are things which 15 years ago –seems impossible, right? but I arrived here in August of 1999— were a dream or totally unthinkable.
I know we have a way to go here in this UNESCO World Heritage Zone City  --and caramba, it’s not a little bit of a way—but nevertheless, certain things are better here. Just to mention two: there are fewer street dogs –thanks principally, in my view, to the titanic work of VOLUNTEER organizationes like Amigos de los Animales – and therefore, less animal excrement in the streets; and second, there is more local economic activity.
I’m talking not just about the micro-local of Xocolate in the Plaza del Baratillo (see below), or about the Taller de Joyería Escultórica (Sculptural Jewelry Workshop, see the next installment) of Cathie Gielis –native of Belgium but naturalized Mexican for some years now— in Casa Cuatro)—; but also of countrywomen with products made from nopal; and with  other products like soaps, handmade from local herbs and vegetables.  I’m talking also about the women in the Mercado Hidalgo who ten years ago sold their cheeses –from goats’ and cows’ milk—as though they were nothing and now have little labels on them.  This is not some process of gentrification: on the contrary, it’s a sign of pride in their own work and its results.  These women, at least, are starting to find a way around that terrible tendency we have, to undervalue our own human capital.
In another post I’ll start to speak about the social and sociological questions, at least those of my own barrio, which is really the only one I know. All this is very uppermost in my mind because of the neighbourhood project which we recently delivered, I and the Asociación Vecinal (Neighbourhood Association) to which I belong. Soon …
But for now, to what I promised …
Los Campos: Is there a better example of the cosmopolitan salad which our city is becoming? Hard to imagine: she, a Real Chef, from Aguascalientes; he a sommelier, from Anglophone Canada. The food is astoundingly imaginative and inventive. Not to mention the presentation, which is as delicious as the food and which totally reveals the pride which this couple-team have in their gastronomic creation.
And another thing: the first time I went (when they were still in Alonso) I was bowled over when I saw that they have Cloth Napkins. (Lots of lights, drum roll!!)   Cloth Napkins, dear readers, just think about it: this signifies, for a restaurant, a near-titanic reduction in garbage.  Besides which it is a thousand times, I mean a bazillion times, more agreeable more pleasant, more civilized.
The Only Caveat, and really The ONLY one, is that as of the beginning of July they still –in spite of the most diligent and tenacious efforts with the Relevant Authorities— do not have their permit to serve alcohol. If it were permitted, I would say to you that you should bring your bottles of fine tequila and mezcal, of good  wine … and in some fashion it would be possible to serve them.  But this is not permitted, and so I shall not say it.
This delight which is Los Campos is to be found just coming up from the Baratillo: with your back to Cantarranas and the fountain, it looks like a “Y”.  If you take the left arm you will go to the Compañía.  The right arm will take you to the “Callejón of Vegetables”.  Beginning the right arm you see their sign.  I believe that for now they are opening from 3pm to 11PM. Enjoy!!
Barely five meters from Los Campos, you will find The Chocolate Place: Xocolate, spelled somewhere between native Nahuatl and Spanish.  And indeed, it is practically a sacred site. Various chocolates: bars from white to 95% cacao, I swear! When they opened up about three years ago, my dear friend the renowned poet Lirio Garduño exclaimed, “Civilization has arrived in Guanajuato!” Forget about Godiva Chocolates, all you who pass through these doors.  This is a different league.
Suffice it to say that on a recent visit I tasted  some new varieties invented by the proprietors (he from Puebla, she from the Bajío), among them a dark chocolate with balsamic vinegar and I don’t remember what else; milk chocolate with epazote and … I won’t reveal it, I’ll just say that in general for me milk chocolate doesn’t even qualify as chocolate but in this case I make a very happy exception. And that always astounding chocolate con chipotle, ayayay madre mía.  When I am in Austerity Mode, instead of buying individual chocolates I just buy one of those wheels of chocolate de mesa and instead of making chocolate to drink I just eat it, with the greatest possible delight, yummmm.
Frutería Torres Hmnos, a.k.a. la Frutería del Baratillo, a.k.a. la frutería del moreno:  Everyone should already know about this,  but for the few people who don’t … some three years ago in the Spring I was amazed to see ASPARAGUS in this vegetable store; as well as blackberries, blueberries, now kale …  and various other more “exotic” vegetables and fruits.  Aside from the usual extensive selection of stuff, always varying depending on the season of course.  It’s very interesting to me that we’re seeing these sorts of things here. Ten years ago, when I was in San Miguel de Allende  (SMA) with Ehecalli for a chamber music concert, I saw country men on the street selling asparagus; at the time I figured it was surely because there were foreigners in SMA and thus a market for such a thing.  But in Guanajuato at that time, not a trace: just in the Mega or the Comercial Mexicana (the two US-style supermarkets here) all dried up and at a very inflated price. And there are plenty of Mexicans who like asparagus, it’s not just a foreign taste! Until it appeared with el More (short for el Moreno, the proprietor of the Baratillo vegetable store) … and what asparagus it was and is!  Costs anywhere between 40 and 70 pesos the kilo and so fresh it might have come from your own kitchen garden. Be aware … !
Various reasons this interests me, but at the head of the list is that this frutería doesn’t sell to a fancy gringo or foreigner clientele – in any case the great majority of the foreigners here are better-endowed intellectually than financially!—no my dears, this frutería sells to nationals; and I believe that no one who works there speaks anything other than Spanish.  The foreigners who shop there do so because they know that the fruit and veggies are a thousand times better and fresher than what you generally find in the Comercial or the Mega, all wrinkled and old and overpriced. Those supermarkets have their uses, I’m the first to acknowledge, but good fresh local produce is generally not among them.
So, dear ones, this is ours.  Buy here, in these places and these businesses, take an interest in them, treasure them.
La Puerta Roja (The Red Door): really Good Bread! …  As some of you know, there are times when I become a bit of a Hermit.  Sometimes I’m not here because I have concerts in other parts of the planet; and then when I get home I’m preparing for the next trip, or just plain resting. So it wasn’t until this past May that one fine day, strolling down Sangre de Cristo, the penny dropped that there was something new there.  Caramba, I said to myself, a bakery! I think that first time I didn’t even go in, but shortly thereafter, I did.
It’s a delightful place: one of those old buildings, one of the rather humble ones, a cozy space on a human scale, one of those you just can’t imitate, you know?  They’ve done the minimum to the space, in a very respectful fashion.  As well as being a bakery, they’re a restaurant, offering a couple of salads and soups, various baguettes: light food. I confess I haven’t yet tried the food, so far just the bread.
So far just the bread is enough.  Because they offer a well-considered selection of breads, all made with sourdough yeast –which is the yeast you get, with luck, when you mix together some flour, a little honey or sugar, and air, my dears: those miraculous microbes in the air, because in the air are microbes which make, or change into, yeast.  This process requires considerable patience and is way less sure than just opening an envelope of yeast … but the results are truly marvellous. Yet another artisanal process.
You see? This is ours.
Massage, a.k.a. the Amazing Flores Sisters … and their salsas! A couple of months ago I went into the Frutería del Baratillo and in the next doorway saw the Amazing Flores Sisters, both of them. Who, amazingly and with their usual tenacity and imagination, had opened another place.  They are really good masajistas (masseuses), both of them.  I think they were the first real ones here; and they seem never to give up.  Now you can get a Massage Express for feet or back, or your whole-body no-express massage.  Now, more or less sporadically, they also have these salsas (sauces) which are, as we say here, de poca madre (drop-dead delicious).  The two I’ve tried are peanuts with chile and ginger; and roast chile with a bit of vinegar.   More artesanía. My respects.
Celular: 473 120 05 14
Casa Cuatro: Yoga y Pilates with Tlathui Benavides … OK, having said all the foregoing, in Casa Cuatro there’s Yoga and Pilates with Tlathui Benavides, who besides being an incredibly gifted dancer is a really fine instructor of these two very important disciplines.  And really, for everyone, whether you are 20 or 60 years old, man or woman.
Also right in the Plaza del Baratillo, the Centro Bharati: where there’s yoga with Alejandra as well.  Now are you starting to see the variety we have here?  It’s astounding. And in the Centro Bharati there’s good Indian vegetarian food and a nice little boutique of Indian clothes.  YUMMM!!

A late addition: Escarola … in Pocitos #38, almost exactly in front of the Casa-Museo Diego Rivera. They just opened and I haven’t tried the food yet; but the other day, returning from taking Azabacha for her vaccines, we poked our heads in and saw the place and the menu.  Both really lovely.  It seems there are options fro vegans, for carnivores, and for vegetarians.  I shall do everything possible to eat there soon and deliver a report ;=))

lunes, 28 de abril de 2014

MARCHÁNDOME.1: VIGILIAS Y SUEÑOS, SIGNOS Y PORTENTOS_24 ABRIL 2013


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Pronto subiré el resto de esta entrega en castellano ... 
2013-04-24

MARCHÁNDOME.1: VIGILIAS Y SUEÑOS, SIGNOS Y PORTENTOS

En algo menos que cinco días me marcharé, y mi nueva vida empezará.  Saldré con esta relación con el tabaco y mi nuevo amante, como dice L***, será el Aire Libre.  Mmmhhh.
Cada vez más durante esta semana pasada me he trasladado a la Zona Instintiva.  Sin siquiera pensarlo,  volví a leer el capítulo en la LobaBiblia (Mujeres que corren con las lobas, de Clarissa Pínkola Estés) sobre Vasalisa la Sabía y la búsqueda de conexión con el instinto. Todos mis canales están configurados aRecibir ahora, todo que se arrima a mi consciencia lo hace por una sola razón: este camino en que me he puesto.

LEAVING.1: VIGILS & DREAMS, SIGNS & PORTENTS: 24 APRIL 2013


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2013-04-24

leaving.1: vigils and dreams, signs and portents

In something less than five days I will be leaving, and my new life will begin.  I will leave this relationship with tobacco and my new lover, as L*** says, will be Fresh Air.  Mmmhhh.

Increasingly over this last week I have moved into the Zone of Instinct.  Without even thinking why, I reread the chapter in the “Wolf-Woman” book (Women who Run with the Wolves, Clarissa Pinkola Estés) on Vasalisa and the seeking out of connection with instinct.  All my channels are set to RECEIVE now, everything that impinges on my consciousness does so for a reason: this course on which I’m set. 
L*** said to me, “I am astounded at how centred and directed you are. You are like an arrow”.  I have thought of being like an arrow.  I have thought about being like Warrior One (I think it is), one arm pointed ahead like a directional sign, like an urging-on, like a beckoning forward. 

I have prepared for this departure almost as carefully as I did for the one from N***, in the waning days of 1989, after some 15 years.  I had stopped playing the piano in any serious way, for reasons that are not germane here, and had spent a lot of that juice pretty much running my then-partner’s business.  (Which I did quite well: it grossed a million US$ the last year I worked there.)  When I awoke to music again, and to my relationship with the piano, it was a painful awakening because I had to acknowledge that I’d broken faith with that relationship, the central one in my life.  But mysteriously and miraculously, it had not broken faith with me.  My decision to start practicing again made clear to me that my relationship with the piano and my relationship with the man could not coexist. 

At first, it seemed to me that this was sort of a model for what I am doing now; and, in fact, it was quite useful in certain ways.   In thinking about this I realized that a far better model was the relationship with R***, because it took Pleasure into account: the carnal part of that relationship was unequivocally the best ever.  But the Helpfulness Quotient (HQ) was almost a Missing Piece there, in spite of the intellectual brilliance and the afore-mentioned sexual part.  So this second model accommodated the profound and multifaceted pleasure I received from smoking for such a very long time.
In both cases, each of these men had started to leave me, in one way or another, long before I left them.  Tobacco has been starting to leave me for a while now.  Its HQ was going down all the time.  It has been impeding me.  I knew this over six years ago: it was why, after Solo Rumores, I stopped smoking at the computer and then inside my house. 

Finally I had to decide that it was impeding more than it was helping or giving pleasure: as with R***, the pleasure was no longer worth the dragging-down part. 

I realized just a few minutes ago, meditating on this, that in my life I have never put up with anyone restricting my freedom of movement.  Sometimes it takes me a while –that first 15-year relationship took the longest time— but sooner or later I take a walk.  Or a run!

There have been Harpy Attacks: How will you concentrate?  How will you control your weight?  Just you wait, the terror and anxiety will destroy you and you will run out and buy a pack of cigarettes and then how will you feel, you pathetic excuse for a woman/human being/artist? 
I know from Harpy Attacks.  And I think I know what to do about them: one of the most moving moments in all my reading is when, in Philip Pullman’s trilogy, the answer comes “tell them stories”.  Even the Harpies are hurting inside, that is why they want to lacerate.  So tell them stories.  My stories are full of faith and delight: how I will have better concentration because my brain will be receiving more oxygen, my weight will be OK, in fact better, because now I will be able to run, run, RUN like my tocaya Ana Guevara, as far and as beautifully as I may wish.  And panic and terror will not be present because they are not part of my being now, in fact just the thought of that in the cold light of day is laughable.
Remembering how it was in the waning days of 1989 as I prepared with such care to leave the relationship with N***, I actually went back and found a half-remembered journal entry.  It is dated 26 December 1989 and says:
“These last few weeks, I feel emotionally the way I felt musically when I really had my chops up: every time I had a question or confusion, I would take a minute and look inside myself, almost in fear that I had finally hit the wall where there were no more answers – and lo and behold, spread out before me for the taking was the answer, the solution, or the thought that pointed me towards the changed mind-set that let me see the solution.
“I feel as though I have been gulping down great mouthfuls of learning about myself and about things: a collection of big and little wisdoms that put all together give me wings.  Perhaps this is why I have felt so little hunger.  I enjoy food, but it doesn’t have the desperate importance for me that it had in the past; now I am fed by other things, marvellous underground springs of music and awareness that have been struck by some staff and have emerged from the parched ground to sustain me.”

Yes, I have prepared for this.  Little by little, over the last ten days or so, the ashtrays have been removed or relocated.  Now I do not even look for most of them where they were.  Little by little, my own auto-hypnosis is working: the other day I picked up a cigarette and it looked like some alien object in my hand. 

And as in that wonderful quote attributed to Goethe, providence has intervened.  When I returned from the Fulbright interviews in the DF on Saturday evening, on my desk was the package containing my new balance ball!!  Which I was finally able to order because of the Torreón concert!  And the spare plug kit and the pump, that I’d ordered from the wonderful Balls’n’Bands place in one of the Carolinas.  My body is working towards being fighting fit. 

of Signs and portents: I dream: everybody dreams.  But I rarely remember them, it seems, except in times of great crisis.  Of threshold moments.  I re-read Polly Carl’s wonderful post on Howlround ( http://www.howlround.com/notes-on-generosity-in-the-theater-by-polly-carl/  )
two days ago and that term came jumping out at me outlined in lights.  Threshold moments.  One of the moments, she says, in which it is most important to be generous. 
In the worst year of my life –the Dreadful Winter of Ice and Snow of 1997, in which my only sister died after not speaking to me for almost ten years— I learned to Ask For News.  And my dreams faithfully reported it, in a neutral fashion just like the news.  Sometimes it was terrible.  Often altho’ terrible it was weirdly reassuring.  Like Haydn and Schubert and Ibarra, the Dream News reassured me that I was still alive and sentient. 

So this time also I asked for news, just before drifting off.  The first night I dreamed of blood.  I was quite clear that it was menstrual blood, but there was no sensation of alarm or fear associated with it.  The second time I dreamed that I was actually IN the Allen Carr course!  It all felt so comfortable, so reassuring, so good.  The most recent time was last night.  It wasn’t until halfway through the morning I remembered it: the image of a Warrior-Woman, an Athlete-Woman, muscles toned, lean and sinewy and proud.  It was half as though I was looking at her and half as though I was her.  The Power of Intention is alive and strong.

I don’t interpret any of these dreams here: I am running on intuition and if anyone wants them explained she may have to wait; or engage the imagination-muscles and figure them out herself …

Ratiocination has, as I move towards this threshold, less and less to do with anything. This was confirmed in a long talk I had with A*** last week.  She is the dearly respected friend and colleague who stopped with Allen Carr while she was smoking three packs of cigarettes daily.  Without terror, without the famous withdrawal, without anything at all.  It was --she said-- as though I had never smoked.  Just listen, she said, turn off your intellect, just listen and absorb, open yourself.

Beautiful reading yesterday by Lirio Garduño: poetry of Efraín Huerta and Thelma Nava.  Some wonderful observations –from Lirio and from her assembled listeners—about the renewing of the language.  That we acknowledge and value lineage but we are open to the new. 

This is the Garden: for something to be born something else must die.  We must make room for New Growth, for new stuff to happen.  Sometimes it can be difficult to bring ourselves to prune but it is only thus that a plant may bear new shoots.  And if it is dead, well let it die, and plant something else in its place.

More than once, these last two weeks, into my mind has come the vision of the about-to-be-knight, who spends the hours of darkness before his ordination keeping vigil, in meditation, contemplation, and prayer, preparing himself –herself? we know there were cases of women who passed themselves off as men, who fought valiantly with the arms of men— for the rite of the morning.  This has been such a time.  I am preparing for My New Life. 

The logistics are arranged.  I will arrive to the DF on Sunday evening and I will stay in a nice economical hotel which, allowing generously for the insane Monday-morning traffic, should be only one hour from the place of the course.  I have confirmed my place in the course.  There is a Sanborn’s half a block away where I can have a good delicious breakfast beforehand –it will be six and a half hours, after all!  So I will arise at 5:30, leave the hotel at 7:00, have my delicious sustaining breakfast, and move easily and lovingly into the preparation for My New Life. 
I don’t know what I will do afterwards, particularly.  I know I will immediately go back to the same breakfast Sanborn’s and have a wonderful comida!  Then I have a date with Mario Lavista to go and FINALLY pick up his Monarca piece … two years late but oh well, still in time for the second recording session ;=)) … and then I don’t know.  If it’s not too late and I feel like it, I may just come back home.  Five hours on the bus but then to be here with Azabacha and Estrella and Zumo … could be!    On the other hand I may stay with one of the friends I have on semi-alert in the DF. 
The hotel is part of the vigil: I knew that when it turned out that the dear friend closest to the course would be returning from the LA Book Fair Sunday night and couldn’t be sure if his plane might be delayed.  So much the better.  Time for contemplation, meditation, prayer, and anticipated joy.
What am I reading?  The Loba-Biblia, the Wolf-Woman book (Women who run with the Wolves, of Clarissa Pinkola Estés, you know it)  … and Harry Potter. Magic, learning, high adventure, opening the doors which appear when we open ourselves to see them.
Much love to you all.  From the bottom of my heart again I thank you for your energy, your love, your friendship.

LEAVING.5_APRIL 2014: ENGLISH


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THOUGHTS  21 ABRIL 2014: LEAVING.05
 
On 29 April 2014 at about 15:30hrs, it will be a year since I smoked my last cigarette. 

At the time, I wrote about the experience of leaving my relationship with tobacco, but for various reasons never published anything on my blog.  Relatively few friends, all very close to me, knew about this event but the vast majority of friends and fans knew nothing.  Sorry!!  Now I’m out of the closet, as it were.

Here are some random observations, collected over the course of this last twelve months.  During that same year I also recorded and launched the two discs of Canto de la Monarca – lots of blogging about that, just look around here in January and July of 2013!  

OK, to begin with: It seems very much in fashion to be profoundly anti-tobacco.  There seem to be no shades of grey, no middle ground.   

Here goes, however unfashionable it may be: I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy some 90% of the cigarettes I smoked.  Goodness me, how I loved smoking!  It brings a nostalgic smile to my lips just remembering it. 

By the same token, it would be a lie to say I suffered horribly when I left that relationship.  Yes, I had a couple of hours when I felt itchy with self-doubt, wondering if I’d done the right thing –something to which I realize I am allergic!— but that was principally because of the behavioural –as opposed to the physical— part of the dependency.  And it all got resolved quite easily with the good meal to which I treated myself.  Read all about it in Leaving.3.

A number of people said or wrote things that gave me the sense that they had visions of Cervantes fighting tooth and nail to free herself from the clutches of this horrid malevolent addiction.  Phrases like “your battle with addiction” tended to appear, almost outlined with lurid orange lights or cartoon lightning zigzags.  Very Hollywood, my dears, but it wasn’t like that at all. Really and truly, I just did what any of us does when she sets out to accomplish a task, whether it’s learning a piece of music or building a house: I organized myself with the best tools at my disposal –the first of which was my imagination— and let the work begin. 

The truth is, I was ready to leave, as I’d been ready to leave other relationships in which I’d become entwined and which had started to be damaging.  In all of them I had already, in some sense, been left: there had been some parting of the ways, somehow it had become clear that the Person In Question wanted some other kind of woman, or just some other woman.  Here, I began to see that tobacco had already left me: it was starting to take a toll, to slow me down.  So it was time for me to take my leave, as graciously and easily as possible, causing as little aggravation as I could.  Like a lady?  Yes. Like the Amiable (though Imperious) Diva which I aim to be? Yes indeed.

So it turns out that not everyone wants to hear that I didn’t suffer!  I was amazed.  In that couple of weeks after smoking that final cigarette –sort of like making love for what you (at least) are pretty sure will be the last time— I ran into LOTS of people with whom I shared that I’d left tobacco.  Some were really supportive – interesting that many people who still smoke and are enjoying it a lot were among the most supportive.  There were others who, apparently, had stopped and deeply felt that they’d given something up.   One said, “It’s been three years and every time someone lights up, I STILL want to smoke a cigarette.”   Then he looked at me with a penetrating glance and asked, “So how do you feel?” When I said that I was just deliriously happy he shot me a glance laden with profound skepticism.  
All of a sudden I realized that sharing my own happiness was not always going to make other people happy.  I’d seen this before in my life but had forgotten: misery loves company!  When I told this to my dear friend Z*** Y***, a therapist who has done a lot of work around substance abuse, she said Sounds like you were smoking for a lot of people.  Even over the telephone I could hear the smile in her voice.

And then there are the people –mostly non-smokers but who maybe have had their own issues from major to minor with alcohol or food or whatever— who are genuinely interested in how it worked for me, what my experience has been.  For me this has been really heart-warming. 

This is going to sound totally off the wall, but it is true: there are times when I think about cigarettes, and about smoking them, and the whole thing seems irrelevant.  It’s the best word I can think of.  Cigarettes have nothing to do with me, good or bad, enjoyable or disgusting.  They just don’t matter.

Also, it’s been amusing for me to discover the huge amount of folklore around this dependency business, in particular as it relates to tobacco.  Occasionally useful altho’ rarely; mostly amusing.  For one thing, the data are totally contradictory.  I think they fail to take into account that each body is different.
Several people, upon learning that I’d left, sent me these adorable lists of good changes that happen to your body when you stop smoking tobacco.  In both English and Spanish, bless their hearts.  Several different versions, as I recall. 
In one it said that I would have less body hair.  This was accompanied by a rendering of a hairy arm followed by a less hairy one.  I find myself wondering, not for the first time, what this sort of thing tells us about the popular image of female beauty … but that’s another blog, sorry.
Well, I am sorry to tell you that in the case of my own body this has not been the case.  I seem to have more hair on my head and on my arms and everywhere else women have hair.  It’s not abundantly more, but I do notice that I have to go to the depilación place a little more often: I’m still getting used to that part.  No complaints: I am a Big Hair Gal and feel that you can never have too much hair –at least on your head. Or be too rich or too thin … just joking …

Obviously the relationship between art and dependency has been much written-about.  The death by heroin of Philip Seymour Hoffman brought out a lot of commentaries about how the “sensitives” among us are particularly vulnerable to addiction problems.  And there were the inevitable commentaries about how for such people, when they are artists, the dependency may even be a sort of necessary precondition for their creative work. 
I have some real problems with this whole package of stuff  For one thing, it is a terrible stereotyping of the artist: real romantic twaddle.  The worst is when young artists believe it!  
Plus, it’s just not the case: look at all the musicians –just to mention one category— who ended their abusive relationships with alcohol or other drugs and carried on to have splendid careers.  They didn’t lose an iota of their musical passion or potency, and almost certainly they added years to their lives both creative and physical.

As you might imagine, I thought about this a lot, before I left smoking. Also afterwards.  If there was anything that worried me it was precisely that bit: how tobacco was hooked in to My Life As A Musician.  I remembered, many times, how from one day to the next I abandoned the cigarette and ashtray on their own little table by the side of the piano, a few weeks after I started working with Lettvin.  No one –least of all me—was trying to get me to stop smoking tobacco … but it suddenly became a distraction.  Not only there was no need for it, it was positively In The Way. I thought of this as another model, not certain how it would come into play but pretty sure it would, literally or metaphorically.  And of course, it did: smoking had started to hold me back more than it pleased me: ergo, it was In The Way.  Time for me to go.

The friend who left cigarettes when she was smoking as many as 60 cigarettes a day said, before I stopped, “It’s not about cigarettes as such, it’s about your relationship with cigarettes –  it’s much more about YOU.”

I have never regretted this decision, not for one single minute.  On the contrary, I feel profoundly grateful that leaving that relationship –so gratifying for so many years— was so easy, at the end when it was no longer very exciting and had become a burden.

Nostalgie du tabac.  There has been and still is what I have come to think of as “nostalgie du tabac” –no idea why I think it in French, maybe all those sexy French actors smoking?--: nostalgia for tobacco.  Most definitely it is not nostalgia for smoking tobacco: I have zero desire to smoke. Rather, it’s nostalgia for the way I felt in certain moments when I smoked.  Interestingly, almost all of them have to do with being alone, with moving apart from the crowd in one way or another.  Lots to chew on here, obviously.
I got my wish.  Three or four times I have actually had moments in which I realized, incredulous, that I almost wished I wanted it – makes me laugh.  After the last time this happened I understood: to not want it was what I’d so passionately desired, almost seven years ago.  
At various moments during the last 20 years or so, I’ve realized: all the things I really desired, I have received.
OK, the weight part.  If you’ve read the earlier parts of this posting, you know that I had this vision of myself looking something like my tocaya (namesake) Ana Guevara the Mexican runner, within six months after that last cigarette.  This has not happened.  In fact, there are some four or five kilos around my middle that were not there before.  I oscillate between fury at the weight and delight in the extra-delicious flavour food now has, as well as a kind of silly-happiness about almost everything, fundamentally about being alive and sentient.  
People don’t know what to think about this either, at least some of them.  On the one hand, in every possible Righteous Way, they have to be happy that Ana Left Tobacco.  On the other hand, are they happy to see me looking A Tad Plump?  What is WRONG with La Q, for heaven’s sake?! 
But I can’t explain.  I guess I have figured –using the model of  “I seem to have achieved the things I’ve really desired” – that at a certain point the equilibrium would re-establish itself, product of a mysterious gyroscope whose rule-book I do not have but only intuit. 
It seems I’m not quite ready for the Madonna Macrobiotic Diet.  Well, perhaps if there were a really appealing chef cooking it up for me … I never say never.
In the meantime, as always when I am here, I go out every morning to walk or run with my two wonderful companions Azabacha and Estrella.  In the last month I seem to have finally re-established a good work rhythm at the piano.  Curiously, going hand-in-hand with this is the re-establishment of my own Pilates-Yoga-mélange of mat work.   So who knows? –maybe that gyroscope is activating itself.
Important to understand: leaving tobacco is a major metabolic hit.  If you’d drunk a glass of orange juice upon arising every morning for several decades, and suddenly one day you didn’t, your body would let you know.  Tobacco is surely a bit more complex than this example but you get the idea.  I believe there’s some research on this but really, in the middle of recording the two Monarca CDs and all the attendant craziness I couldn’t be bothered to do the necessary looking around.   

A kind of innocence. I smell the perfume of a newly-lighted cigarette and it smells delicious to me.  But it gives me no desire to smoke.  I find this an absolutely amazing and delightful phenomenon.  It is a kind of innocent pleasure which I imagine to be that of being an little girl and smelling the cigarette of my father –or of my mother, for that matter, they both smoked— and loving the scent without wanting anything more.

Curiosity.  As in many other moments, Curiosity was an impetus which generated enormous energy for me.
 For example: I played my first tobacco-free concert exactly one month after smoking that last cigarette, and that was quite cool.  I had absolutely no idea what it would feel like and the cool part was that it all went perfectly fine.  I was gratifyingly surprised to find that I felt no different than when I was smoking: the concentration and the focus were the same.  In fact they were slightly better, I think now: perhaps because of having more oxygen in my body? 

Another example: when I went to the US for the DC and NY launches of Monarca, it was the first time I’d been in DC as a non-smoker since I was a teenager … and the first time ever in New York City. Here too, I wondered how that would feel. On the one hand, ¡¡SURPRISE!! It really didn’t feel that different.  On the other hand, it was an amazing sort of historical landmark in my own life.

Do it for Your Own Reasons.  At the very end of that six and a half-hour Allen Carr course, the therapist/group leader said, “This is sort of a cliché, but it’s extremely important.  We always read that we should Do Things For Ourselves: meditation, exercise, relaxation, a walk in the woods, whatever.  This is the same, but in a different way: it’s critical that you leave cigarettes for your own reasons.  Write them down.  Put a copy on the fridge, keep one in your wallet or your purse, another by your bedside – wherever you think you may need it.  Everyone around you will have a long list of good reasons why you should leave cigarettes: don’t do it for their reasons, do it for yours.”
Impossible to overstate how important and wonderful this advice was for me.  As the days and weeks and months unfolded after that last cigarette –smoked with joy but also, the truth be told, with a bit of boredom, in anticipation of my soon-to-arrive freedom— I was to understand again and again how right-on it is.  So true: everyone around me had a whole list of reasons why it would be good for me to leave smoking.  I’m sure all of them were valid, persuasive, whatever.  But at the end of the day those reasons –as I suppose they often do in these situations— had way more to do with each of those people than they did with me. 
What were MY reasons for leaving? If you’ve read the previous chapters in this little history you’ll know a bunch of them.  At the end of the day, the central reason is:
It Was Time To Go.

What do I take away, most centrally, now, a year after leaving?  I think it’s this:

Primordially, more and more: The Happiness Part is Up To Me.  
Second, that The Choice and the Reasons are Mine. 
Not so strange, I guess, that those were the central lessons of other leavings, other movings-on, other evolutions in my life.  The best is still to come!