My version of an etiological legend about Oxum, Afro-Brazilian goddess of beauty and of rivers, lakes, and cascades, and the origin of the scarlet macaw.
Com as penas douradas e azuis, a arara ostentava as cores prediletas de Oxum, a orixá da beleza e das águas doces. Por isso era o pássaro preferido dela. Além disso, aquele primo dos papagaios adorava construir ninhos em buracos seguros perto das cachoeiras, fenômenos naturais sagrados da orixá. Muitas eram as tardes nas que a deusa tomava banho na espuma de algum salto d'água enquanto observava o ir e vir das coloridas e barulhentas araras. Oxum as saudava com risos de alegria. Voavam ao redor das redondezas fluidas dela, suas curvas corporais parecidas às correntes dos rios, e ela brincava com o espelho, fazendo jogos de luz com os raios do sol refletidos entre as folhas das árvores. As vezes ela mergulhava para escolher alguns seixos, objetos também sagrados dela, e os jogava no ar para as araras os pegarem no bico, em pleno vôo. Depois Oxum convertia os seixos apanhados em colares e cintas para se enfeitar o colo e os quadris.
Certa filha de Oxum tinha se casado com Oxalá, o orixá principal. Era uma de três esposas dele, e as outras duas sentiam inveja dela. Prepararam um ungüento vermelho que colocaram na cadeira dela, fazendo que ela quebrasse dessa maneira um tabu de Oxalá, aparecendo diante dele ensangüentada.
Envergonhada, ela procurou a mãe, Oxum. Então Oxum despiu-se e despiu a filha. Entraram em um lago, deixando fluir o sangue menstrual da filha, que fazia uma mancha vermelha sobre a face da água. Oxum chamou as araras. Elas vieram e voavam perto dela enquanto a orixá disse, "Vou pintar vocês com este o sangue da minha filha, o sangue que significa a fertilidade feminina, o sangue que obedece a regra da lua grávida e da maré cheia. Eis o sangue que pinta o ciclo do tempo e d'água, o ciclo reprodutivo traçado no círculo eterno do seixo, na meiga redondez do seio materno. Vocês ficarão vermelhas, com traços do dourado e azul originais, para dar asas à fecunda criatividade em todas as formas."
Assim dizendo salpicou as caudas e as cabeças dos pássaros preferidos, que extendiam suas penas para maximizar a absorção da cor, dando grasnidos de gozo. Ficaram todos de um vermelho intenso que realçava o azul e o dourado reservados às asas. Em celebração, as araras voaram em formação sobre os verdes das copas das árvores, sobre o branco das nuvens e o azul-celeste do céu, marcando tudo com faixas de fogo ensangüentado. Oxum viu com satisfação o espetáculo, tanto no ar quanto refletido na água.
Depois Oxalá soube do engano das duas esposas, e da transformação do sangue que fizera Oxum. Proclamou então que as penas vermelhas da arara seriam objetos e enfeites sagrados dele, e recebeu novamente a filha de Oxum como esposa.
Até o dia de hoje, algumas pessoas, às vezes, profirem a tolice de que as mulheres devem sentir vergonha do período mensal. Porém as mulheres sábias, e os homens sábios também, se lembram da origem das penas vermelhas da arara, e sentem, com Oxum, o orgulho da capacidade procriadora das mulheres e da criatividade geral.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Al concierto con Cortázar
Nadie como Julio Cortázar para narrar la música. O, más específico: para narrar el desconcierto de un concierto. Precisamente por su dominio tan acertado del flujo temporal de la narrativa, o sea todo relativo al ritmo, al suspenso, al muy medido conteo silábico para llegar al final de una oración o un párrafo, el tema de la música le viene como guante a la mano. Es innegable el gran interés que tenía Cortázar por el jazz, tema de "El perseguidor" y motivo de Rayuela, entre otras obras. De hecho, Rayuela se puede entender como una meditación musical, tanto por su estructura de rapsodia como por el tema musical, un constante en el texto. Y sin embargo, a pesar de la mayor relevancia temática del jazz en la novela, como sistema subversivo de improvisación y connotación, con su parentesco al juego lingüístico del glíglico inventado por los personajes, es la presencia más tradicional de la música clásica, sistema de denotación, que Cortázar explota para lograr una oposición entre proceso y producto, sean musicales o sean narrativos. Por ejemplo, llama la atención el recital de piano, en París, de Berthe Trépat, una pieza ultramoderna de puros acordes llamada "Tres movimientos discontinuos":
El abismo cómico entre las serias expectativas del público y la realidad banal del recital abre este espacio de 'desconcierto,' una profunidazación del aspecto temporal, inevitable como dimensión artística en la música tanto como en la literatura. Semejante es la reacción del narrador incauto en "La banda," ante un concierto insólito y sin previo aviso, de una banda de mujeres, donde unas pocas de ellas tocan sus instrumentos de veras (y mal), mientras que la mayoría tan sólo juguetean con los instrumentos.
Claro que la simultaneidad de condiciones contradictorias, o aun estados opuestos y ostensiblemente irreconciliables, es una marca registrada de la narrativa del maestro argentino.Tal vez el mayor 'desconcierto' sea el que emerge, no sin presagio pero sí con una fuerza sorpresiva, al final del concierto en "Las ménades." El narrador esnob, que no entiende ni disculpa el desenfrenado entusiasmo de los demás, paulatinamente se da cuenta de lo que está presenciando. En medio de un párrafo largo describiendo el final de la Quinta sinfonía de Beethoven, que remata el concierto:
Los gritos se multiplican, acompañados por movimientos bruscos de varios entre las plateas, hasta que al tocar los útimos acordes, el director y los músicos son atacados por un público abandonado al frenesí orgiástico del título (las ménades eran las seguidoras de Dioniso que se descontrolaban en ritos violentos). El narrador / testigo, que nos provoca por lo mucho que deja sin decir, al salir por fin del teatro se topa con la que parece ser la jefa de las ménades:
Con esa repetición muy adrede de "se pasaba la lengua por los labios" termina el cuento, y los lectores quedamos intrigados, perplejos, maravillados ante el desatado poder emotivo de ese movimiento a través del tiempo que es la música, y también la narrativa.
Entre los acordes 7 y 8 restallaron toses, entre el 12 y el 13 alguien raspó enérgicamente un fósforo, entre el 14 y el 15 pudo oírse distintamente la expresión 'Ah, merde alors!' proferida por una jovencita rubia.
El abismo cómico entre las serias expectativas del público y la realidad banal del recital abre este espacio de 'desconcierto,' una profunidazación del aspecto temporal, inevitable como dimensión artística en la música tanto como en la literatura. Semejante es la reacción del narrador incauto en "La banda," ante un concierto insólito y sin previo aviso, de una banda de mujeres, donde unas pocas de ellas tocan sus instrumentos de veras (y mal), mientras que la mayoría tan sólo juguetean con los instrumentos.
Tenía al mismo tiempo ganas de reírme a gritos, de putear a todo el mundo, y de irme.
Claro que la simultaneidad de condiciones contradictorias, o aun estados opuestos y ostensiblemente irreconciliables, es una marca registrada de la narrativa del maestro argentino.Tal vez el mayor 'desconcierto' sea el que emerge, no sin presagio pero sí con una fuerza sorpresiva, al final del concierto en "Las ménades." El narrador esnob, que no entiende ni disculpa el desenfrenado entusiasmo de los demás, paulatinamente se da cuenta de lo que está presenciando. En medio de un párrafo largo describiendo el final de la Quinta sinfonía de Beethoven, que remata el concierto:
Casi nadie oyó el primer grito porque fue ahogado y corto, pero como la muchacha estaba justamente delante de mí, su convulsión me sorprendió y al mismo tiempo la oí gritar, entre un gran acorde de metales y maderas.
Los gritos se multiplican, acompañados por movimientos bruscos de varios entre las plateas, hasta que al tocar los útimos acordes, el director y los músicos son atacados por un público abandonado al frenesí orgiástico del título (las ménades eran las seguidoras de Dioniso que se descontrolaban en ritos violentos). El narrador / testigo, que nos provoca por lo mucho que deja sin decir, al salir por fin del teatro se topa con la que parece ser la jefa de las ménades:
[...] en ese momento asomaron al foyer la mujer vestida de rojo y sus seguidores. Los hombres marchaban detrás de ella como antes y parecían cubrirse mutuamente para que no se viera el destrozo de sus ropas. Pero la mujer vestida de rojo iba al frente, mirando altaneramente, y cuando estuve a su lado vi que se pasaba la lengua por los labios, lenta y golosamente se pasaba la lengua por los labios que sonreían.
Con esa repetición muy adrede de "se pasaba la lengua por los labios" termina el cuento, y los lectores quedamos intrigados, perplejos, maravillados ante el desatado poder emotivo de ese movimiento a través del tiempo que es la música, y también la narrativa.
Labels:
Argentina,
en español,
language,
music
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Continent of Corn
Chances are high that if you've grown up just about anywhere in the Western Hemisphere, you and your metabolism are very familiar with corn (maize). Whether it's corn on the cob (yellow or white? red or blue?), popcorn and corn chips or tortillas and tostadas, grits and cornbread or arepas and esquites, pozole and atole or cornflakes and canjica, corn unites the Americas! It's true that corn's presence is somewhat diminished in the Caribbean, and it's also true that Asians and Africans tend to eat corn in abundance. But it is still the case that Europeans remain largely unfamiliar with corn, except popcorn (and polenta!), and corn as livestock feed.
We know from paleobotany that corn has been undergoing hybridization during thousands of years of cultivation in the Americas. Indigenous Americans discovered the process of nixtamalization, in which corn is mixed with lime (or ash) to allow for the more nutritious digestion of the niacin in corn. The word comes from Náhuatl, and has even been documented, in its form of "nixtamaleros," as an insult implying indigenous ancestry (and thus corn tortillas), wielded by those northern Mexicans who prefer wheat tortillas!
Today the US produces approximately half of the world's corn, and Brazil and Mexico are also big producers. Experiments in hybridization continue, albeit controversially: to protect the ancestral stock, the Mexican government had resisted, until just a few months ago, the import of genetically modified corn. Corn rivals sugarcane not only in the production of glucose-based products such as corn syrup (ubiquitous and insidious in US products) but also in ethanol. Recent interest in ethanol production from corn in the US and Mexico spiked the price of corn and damaged Mexican production practices. But it is more efficient to produce ethanol as an alternative fuel from sugarcane than it is from corn. This gives leading ethanol producer Brazil an advantage based on the extent of arable land in its tropical climate. A joint US-Brazil economic plan to stimulate ethanol production from sugar cane in Caribbean countries prompted the Venezuelan government, which has too much to lose in potential petroleum sales, to complain about a disguised neocolonization of the islands.
In Spanish, maíz (or elote or choclo, etc.) and in Portuguese, milho, corn is justly celebrated by quintessential Latin American writers Gabriela Mistral and Miguel Angel Asturias, both Nobel laureates. The Chilean Mistral equates corn with its Mexican homeland, where she lived as an influential educator, in her poem "El maíz": "El santo maíz sube / en un ímpetu verde, / y dormido se llena / de tórtolas ardientes [...] Y México se acaba / donde la milpa muere." The Guatemalan Asturias, in Hombres de maíz, constructs a novel fluctuating between the Maya stories and mores he learned from his grandmother, and the surrealist techniques he learned in Paris while studying at the Sorbonne.
Asturias's title refers to the pre-conquest Quiché Maya compendium of knowledge known as Popul Vuh, which holds that the gods, after several failed attempts, finally created humans from corn. The hair-like tassels, the teeth-like kernels, and the milky insides of the kernels likened to breastmilk or semen, are a few of the most salient similes in the Mesoamerican worldview's linkage of corn to the substance of human life. A custom observed across several Maya groups is the burial of a newborn's placenta in the milpa (cornfield), a symbolic return to the origin of life in the Americas.
We know from paleobotany that corn has been undergoing hybridization during thousands of years of cultivation in the Americas. Indigenous Americans discovered the process of nixtamalization, in which corn is mixed with lime (or ash) to allow for the more nutritious digestion of the niacin in corn. The word comes from Náhuatl, and has even been documented, in its form of "nixtamaleros," as an insult implying indigenous ancestry (and thus corn tortillas), wielded by those northern Mexicans who prefer wheat tortillas!
Today the US produces approximately half of the world's corn, and Brazil and Mexico are also big producers. Experiments in hybridization continue, albeit controversially: to protect the ancestral stock, the Mexican government had resisted, until just a few months ago, the import of genetically modified corn. Corn rivals sugarcane not only in the production of glucose-based products such as corn syrup (ubiquitous and insidious in US products) but also in ethanol. Recent interest in ethanol production from corn in the US and Mexico spiked the price of corn and damaged Mexican production practices. But it is more efficient to produce ethanol as an alternative fuel from sugarcane than it is from corn. This gives leading ethanol producer Brazil an advantage based on the extent of arable land in its tropical climate. A joint US-Brazil economic plan to stimulate ethanol production from sugar cane in Caribbean countries prompted the Venezuelan government, which has too much to lose in potential petroleum sales, to complain about a disguised neocolonization of the islands.
In Spanish, maíz (or elote or choclo, etc.) and in Portuguese, milho, corn is justly celebrated by quintessential Latin American writers Gabriela Mistral and Miguel Angel Asturias, both Nobel laureates. The Chilean Mistral equates corn with its Mexican homeland, where she lived as an influential educator, in her poem "El maíz": "El santo maíz sube / en un ímpetu verde, / y dormido se llena / de tórtolas ardientes [...] Y México se acaba / donde la milpa muere." The Guatemalan Asturias, in Hombres de maíz, constructs a novel fluctuating between the Maya stories and mores he learned from his grandmother, and the surrealist techniques he learned in Paris while studying at the Sorbonne.
Asturias's title refers to the pre-conquest Quiché Maya compendium of knowledge known as Popul Vuh, which holds that the gods, after several failed attempts, finally created humans from corn. The hair-like tassels, the teeth-like kernels, and the milky insides of the kernels likened to breastmilk or semen, are a few of the most salient similes in the Mesoamerican worldview's linkage of corn to the substance of human life. A custom observed across several Maya groups is the burial of a newborn's placenta in the milpa (cornfield), a symbolic return to the origin of life in the Americas.
Labels:
Brazil,
Caribbean,
Chile,
corporeality,
food,
in English,
Latin America,
Mexico
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
O Veleiro
If you're looking for a great place to stay in Rio -- cozy, beautiful design, lush grounds and panoramic vistas, with a first-class welcome from a terrific staff, and a fresh, full breakfast -- choose O Veleiro!
A cantilevered confection of wood, stone, brick
and air,
O Veleiro Bed & Breakfast
floats on a sea of mist and greenery
above the Marvellous City.
The windows of O Veleiro
are meeting places for marmosets,
balconies for bossa nova serenades,
look-outs over luscious landscapes,
portals of light
that invite and incite
the well-fed, well-rested, and casually fortunate guests
to participate with the cariocas
in the active creation of another beautiful day.
On most such days,
when the conjugation of light and latitude
aligns a certain breeze along the Tropic of Capricorn,
O Veleiro / The Sailboat lifts from its moorings,
hoists its hammocks as the most laidback of sails,
and disembarks from its hillside dock,
setting forth from the open arms of the massive Cristo Redentor
to navigate Botafogo like a float in Carnaval,
and beyond, over beaches,
through the Baia de Guanabara,
to pull alongside the cablecar park
atop Sugarloaf Mountain
as a gift of pleasant surprise
from Rio
on and out to the wistful world.
A cantilevered confection of wood, stone, brick
and air,
O Veleiro Bed & Breakfast
floats on a sea of mist and greenery
above the Marvellous City.
The windows of O Veleiro
are meeting places for marmosets,
balconies for bossa nova serenades,
look-outs over luscious landscapes,
portals of light
that invite and incite
the well-fed, well-rested, and casually fortunate guests
to participate with the cariocas
in the active creation of another beautiful day.
On most such days,
when the conjugation of light and latitude
aligns a certain breeze along the Tropic of Capricorn,
O Veleiro / The Sailboat lifts from its moorings,
hoists its hammocks as the most laidback of sails,
and disembarks from its hillside dock,
setting forth from the open arms of the massive Cristo Redentor
to navigate Botafogo like a float in Carnaval,
and beyond, over beaches,
through the Baia de Guanabara,
to pull alongside the cablecar park
atop Sugarloaf Mountain
as a gift of pleasant surprise
from Rio
on and out to the wistful world.
Labels:
Brazil,
in English,
Neotropical wildlife,
poetry
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