Category: Weekly state (Page 5 of 30)

Good things in life come from stinky processes.

As warmth hits the northern hemisphere again, I start to collect ingredients. A little bit of brine, some herbs. Sugar, just to be a little sweet. I don’t know what will come out of it, but surely it will go through a decomposing phase, full of gas and unpleasant odours.

The places where they produced Garum were known for their horrendous smells. Nonetheless, these cities became very rich. And just after the basic (wheat) and the luxurious (oil), Garum became an export topseller. Who knew that stinky fish sauce was so important?

So here I sit and wonder, when will the stinky state leave my side to become an export success? Will it ever? How long does this weird thing I am brewing together need to ferment? How long do I need to sit in brine and ferment myself?

I am sitting in between the casks, filled to the brim, oozing. I have enough ingredients, surely enough for a lifetime. But will I ever be umami?

Until the day that may never come arrives, I’ll be here, working, filling, fermenting. Maybe someday you’ll import some?

• Weekly state: free.
• Weekly state: dense.
• Weekly state: illuminated.

What ponders yonder by the swamp? It is I, the toad. Steven is the name.

Spring has arrived and I for one am uplifted by the explosion of greenery around me. Winter has been harsh and there weren’t as many insects around that could be lured into my mouth. With increasing starvation, my thoughts have become numb, unclear, foggy. Days and nights were interchangeable, grey. So I, Steven the Toad, was in a state of evasion.

The worst aspect of it all is that the swamp was unusable. And everyone who knows me or even goes as far as calling me a friend knows that I need the swamp to levitate. For pondering and such. Just by defying gravity’s earthly burden, my mind can leave the face of this planet.

However today, swamp season has started and with it, my nutrition and thoughts have come back. I can bless you all again with the knowledge I have gained last winter. I am not evading anymore, I am back.

So now I head back and spread my toads legs, floating in the swamp, seemingly untouched by gravity, floating. Two eyes above the surface and the stare of a mountain goat.

Who it is there, over yonder, pondering by the swamp? It is I, Steven the Toad.

Blushing is the sign of a noble heart.

As the winds of change carry me back to where some part of me was lost, I openly embrace my inner Prince Myshkin. Coming back to the place that carries so much memories and enchants me repeatingly, I open my mind and shut my mouth. Overwhelmed I strut along the paths I have walked so many times before. Inebriated, infatuated, idiotic.

Now for some of you that know dear Papa Shanghai and have followed along the paths of useless wisdom, these are no news. You can probably guess where I have taken shelter for a limited time. But this is more than a Dacha, it is an ever-changing tune that continues to resonate.

As the author that wrote the inspiration for the state of this week did, I write hurringly. Clustered and mysterious, I myself do not know what my personal Prince Myshkin is doing this week.

Bystanders see me smile, standing amid the masses, looking up. Stamped idiotic, perceived as naive. But I am too busy to listen to these interpretations, I am searching for the parts that are somewhere hidden in this place. Doing so, I do not even realise that I am losing tiny bits again. And so it goes.

I inspect myself in this giant mirror, as I did many times before. The place has not changed, only me. So I blush, hoping that this mirror will not change, only myself.

I want the potatoes, yes with the garlic. I want curry, definitely with coriander. I want the beer, as cold as possible.

I want the beach, annoyingly hot. So I can cool down in the sea. I want the music, loud and crispy clear. I want the bed, cozy and fresh.

I drive compassion, without any strings attached. I drive empathy, without judging. I drive kindness, without fearing vulnerability.

I want life, on max volume. I want experience, with all senses blasted. I want reckless energy, with the sword of Damocles hanging above me.

“So we have ice cold beer and spicy food”

“PERFECT”.

A sandwich so beautiful, I don’t even eat it.

A slice of sourdough toast, soft and yet so comforting. Not even the toasting sun of the Atlantic coast is able to burn it. Instead, tiny freckles on its surface arise.

A layer of romaine lettuce, crispy and refreshing. A pleasure for the eye and the soul. Not an excuse to have some vegetables with a seemingly (so people say) unhealthy meal, but a true and necessary edition to foreshadow the underlying depth.

Some cheese, for comfort. The form and consistency don’t even matter, the only important bit is the maturity. For maturity cannot be learned, it is only achieved. Some never succeed in reaching that level.

A bit of sauce. In this case, slight spicyness to reflect the character of its origin, a warm and cultured coastal town in northern Portugal. From here, explorers with good and bad intentions have ventured onto the sea. They brought back a new world of spice and sensation. The sauce smells gorgeous.

Another slice of bread, as all good things must have a beginning and an end.

As I look at the beauty I get nervous. A perfectly complex representation of what I long for.

I have another look and decide to let the moment pass. It will haunt me, but oh so sweetly.