Break-fast (I)

Even if really, really, early in the morning, (sometimes, it’s even better if it’s really that early in the morning, but only sometimes), that slow pacing of getting up and taking your time taking care of the food you are going to start the day with, whatever that is, the sitting down without the hurry to be somewhere, be it alone or in company. With or without a book. The kind of proper breakfast that makes your mind wander through strange lands.

The refuge my brother works at (and runs) closed up for christmas and was thoroughly taken by us, just a dusting of snow outside, the high Pyrenees looming around, zero reception, warm and woody inside. That smell of burning wood that permeates and never lets go but that after a while you don’t even notice. The stacked coffee cups, the dried meat and the fruit.


This is not a ghost story

I am a talker, a writer of sorts, elliptic and metaphorical for sure, though whatever I write or say is usually just whittling at what it is that I might be trying to explain; a trait some have tried to cure up to a limited success. Is that why I usually fall back to personal experiences in to start with.

I also love using my hands, despite what can appear to be an slightly academic tendency, writing on a notebook with any kind of pencil, pen or stylo is still a feeling of accomplishment.

And, clumsy as I might be, it doesn’t quite matter anymore how many glasses I break on a regular basis, with how many obstacles I bump into as I seem to not look all that much at my surroundings, using my hands to do something, anything at all, it’s a grounding jolt.

It reads like an stereotype in here, the narrative of this distorted appealing feminine clumsiness of thousand of heroines who need an outside validation to feel that they deserve to even occupy a physical and real space, except that I do not need that validation and I am a klutz by my own human design, to my inability to inhabit the moment.

So, it doesn’t matter if you are good or not, doing something with your hands, concentrating on the task at hand, getting dirty, all accounts for something. Even if it is just as a plant pot.

Ceviche and poetry

There’s this rundown place, back in bcn, where we went after a class, ages ago, to have some food, ceviche, plantains and yuka, made me fall in love with whatever comes from a peruvian kitchen. The tables were uncomfortable, slightly sticky, hard wood, difficult to move around, there wasn’t a lot of costumers that night and for some reason I barely remember who I was with. The dishes though, not easy to forget.


Home at Dawn, Lima, Peru from Jungles in Paris on Vimeo.

Intimacy I – First World Problem

There’s this thing; now, again and more than ever it is (doesn’t matter the form) a functioning and protective unit of production and still … intimacy is a myth and a painful struggle. By craving it or rejecting it, struggle nonetheless. The glossy picture of the relationship that is not yours while, then, seeing yourself in the mirror and thinking what good might come of it, first, and why what others seem to do, when you try it just feels fake or play pretend, like kids on a sandbox with the ample permission of the world at large; you are an adult after all, second. Myth. Struggle. First World Problem.

And the thing is, for those 6 seconds, it´ll probably be the realest you’ve ever felt.

Brygg Vol.1 Conversation & Coffee

You know that thing? Where you sit down and have a coffee and talk for a long while about whatever it is, personal or not and with whomever you find yourself. That thing where for some reason we share a coffee or food or something as to properly have a talk. I mean, there’s a whole movie about the process, you should know what I’m talking about.

There’s this special intimate relation with talking and drinking, be that alcohol or coffee; it seems that if we have something else to concentrate our attention on besides the other person, something to make our brain multitask, we can share, we can process and articulate.

Brygg Magasin is all about that. And the conversations about our senses are always worth investigating.