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If you like what you see

You're not a gentleman, that I said. You're not. Not even a grown man, as I understand it. I had no qualms. I looked into his eyes, because these things should not hesitate, you know? He let go without. He looked as if he did not understand anything he was saying, as if my words had no strength. A strange thing. And it made me cry, which is what most hate. I yelled for me to hear and the words reached him. I said, I'm like you, just another figure selfish. I think it was a big hit. Because we put the two in the same mud. We could fight. Sunk two, do you follow? There, at ostia clean. Shamelessly. Not warm or envy. Answered otherwise. I changed the subject or deceived me. I would not know it exactly. I was wishing for the end of the tea. Forced myself to drink still hot. I burned my tongue. I still feel a tickle at the tip. Filled my eyes with tears, which gave more dramatic, if possible, to the scene. I knew perfectly well that if some of the two got up, he would fight. He gestured at some point. Did not react. Rather not be I who take charge of the first blow. Never came. There were no women around. Would not have mattered. You know me well, friend. You really know what life is. And, as have guessed, the discussion died before. Dissolved and none made any effort to continue with comedy.

Troll And Toad Recensioni

Never Was Strange

The streets were supported by your absence. Or your permission. It was barely a shadow, a witness or even very clear what can bring years. And began to wander between establishments and the talks as a sign of the man who walks away. We can not say it was spring.

not learned quickly. They did not think anything. They could not with his faith of children who knows and plans and memories? It was a night among the figures who tarnish the wall. No one can remember. Something to be tossed away because it hurts.

The loneliness of a bar is closing. The sound of water and soap. Perhaps there was fear, but it was never weird.

are so different that it is impossible to distinguish. No doubt the strength of winter. And they are far or near. And it's warm like a blanket. And travel light and almost inadvertently.

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Carlos Edmundo de Ory, DEP

This blog owes its name:

"He was never crazy healer

ill roots

All

face immense nightingale Scepter in his sallow rictus

With your memory to go around both singing hills shouting

miserere King creaturely

not had another sad its song throne

Head cliff soul of bread

My beautiful brother mine eyes

My only Christ and my twin wolf

Sosia

your throat shave and do not forget

Your face tremendous naturalist extrañor

As a natural stone cathedral.

Poem, '"César Vallejo".

Author: Carlos Edmundo de Ory.

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The child wonders if perhaps she will not be left
something written somewhere:
a letter, paper, indications ...
comment something to someone who looks
between
inquisitive and cute. None of that matters,
says
is only slightly more metal to forge.
The child knows and looks
household spaces and empty anonymous

to preserve the eternal, as if that would serve to clarify
.

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Sphinx Written Something told me of Zombies

You promised me things from my father. Do not linger. I do not explain anything. Open the cabinets. Recognize that my patience has been exemplary. I have only seen movie memorabilia, chapters autumn. The hours of comfortable sequences impregnated Will wait for a confirmation? Do not you realize that any change would shred it? Like a desert in which children appear games and are looking for reptiles. And no one knows who has brought, to whom they belong. Leave them there on the bed. Listen, this is not personal. I'm not going against you. But have enough time, I think, and I prefer to think of everything, ruminating slowly, but I know that will not lead anywhere. Perhaps it is best to keep distance and watch me while I'm juggling and sleight of hand. I promise not to bother too much, but I demand to hear my complaints, my cries occasionally. And it must convince the changes of presidents and swift time that escapes us. I pretend to accept his condition wise. Serious nod to their pronouncements. Fidelity also plays a role here and now. Will you be my lord and master Have you understood? And I will not do anything to please him.

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I soon realize. That, at last, after all, can be considered as an advantage. That is, not hide behind the coordinates own and be able to at least recognize. I've been (I think I've been). And I appreciate, and I realize the whistles, the peace of mind offers hope. Races nerve devilishly children, their parents scolding from a mature and responsible balance. Families can still grow and serve to accommodate and support. It is a spacious lounge in a mall. Immediately referred to repeated scenes, as taken from a cultural mold need not be renewed because it continues to operate without clogging. Shopping carts, kids entertained with a toy given time to shut them up. The loudspeakers spitting music. Can make up hundreds of bizarre stories, full of fantasy and cruelty. But we would be so obvious disregard for reality, our blindness! I prefer today's photography portrait in this issue: the possibility of being content with the acceptance of an image or representation that seems strange to our vision encenizada by sarcasm. In itself is quite tricky to populate custom ridiculous fears of invented characters. When on the contrary, it is in the healthy and smooth where the monsters appear, as more serene and clean, adequate response to the world.

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Resume José Ramón Busto Saiz, a Jesuit and professor of exegesis of the Old and New Testament in his book Introduction to Christology, the "theory" San Anselmo Theological on Redemption, made in the eleventh century:

"According to this explanation of S. Anselmo, I present a fast, man's sin causes an infinite offense against God. Since man is finite and limited, can not repair an infinite offense because the offenses are measured by the category of offense. A being that must be infinite to satisfy the offended honor of God, which God has to incarnate, to be that being infinite infinite offense repair done. And it has to be incarnated, because, having been committed the offense by man, must also be repaired by man. Jesus dies and his death deserves God's reconciliation, because that offense repairs infinite, since the death of Jesus is a sacrifice that is of infinite value to be the death of an infinite being. So Jesus saves us. "

Given this reading of the death of the Nazarene, Busto Saiz opposes a modern theology (his), much more in tune with the mood of our contemporaries, according to which Jesus appears in history as a fighter for Justice and freedom of the oppressed and the Powers of this world (Rome and the Temple of Jerusalem) can not digest, so they decide to remove it. Redemption is specified, then, finally adequate response to his Lord of Creation. God has won because his love is bigger than fear, oppression and death.

Although, in my opinion, the New Testament study suggests the confusion of dealing with this issue (if the sacrifice of Jesus is a redeemer, it is involuntary, since they know that sacrifice is a sacrifice), I now much more interested in the theology of St. Anselm in this regard. For, indeed, if we read the Gospels carefully, it is clear that Jesus insists that his blood is used to erase the sins of the world (idea much more starkly exposed in the letters of St. Paul.) And I think the wording of the NT texts are deliberately seeking to introduce this argument in the minds of the early believers: The sacrifice of Jesus cleanses sin itself. Then God committed to the fallen and it comes back. But "the fact itself," the death of the Nazarene, redeem. This is uncomfortable for the most progressive in theological body of the Catholic Church. No wonder. It is very hard to think that the deity needs the blood of an innocent to eliminate faults.

time ago, exchanging views (somewhat violently) with a Christian church not assigned to any particular (and now, sadly, is no longer with us), I discovered a new interpretation: for him, not that God needed death of an innocent to redeem His creation, but was the man who, to destroy the feeling of guilt must believe that the Blood of Jesus Christ was "sufficient" to clear his conscience. It was inevitable psychic phenomena.

has impressed me this reading. Not sure to share in regard to the interpretation of the Christian faith, but I am very keen on what you have naked exposure of the behavior of the human mind.

If my late partner was right, Christianity is the only cure for the neurotic world we inhabit and the Gospels would be the most acute reflection of the nature of man. One might, therefore, is able to be happy thinking another person (in this case, "Big Other") has paid for his sins.

I am not a psychiatrist or psychologist and, therefore, I am unable to analyze this in detail. I lack conceptual tools with which to work this mess. I will say, however, that, as I see it (just, I think, look around) the killing or at least an attempted sacrifice (a misconception about him) is on the agenda in our societies. How many people really think giving up something for someone? The sacrifice here is a real murderer of doubts. Standing in the artificial dilemma: "Fulanito I care but I care more Somebody's niece and jacket Walk the sacrificial ax and I Fulanito book ", ie giving the appearance of harshness to an election many mists dissipate emotional and can begin to work with in the joy of having given up something: it is a leap has justified. There

sacrifice. It is a decoy that hides nothing moral cowardice of not knowing face an uncomfortable reality: being incapable of love and surrender without, somewhere, pain appears as an essential ingredient of soup sentimental. And it's funny because the sacrifice is not so, but is sought and, once found the idea false, he denies and blames the slaughter ("he / she asked for it"). Is it possible that our happiness depends on an alien destruction, a destruction not only physically but from everything that once surrounded him and meant something and now crumbling up in memory?

And if this is what we are?

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Sacrifice Elle fut Repatriée Convenablement

there in the biography of Arthur Rimbaud (the poet acclaimed cliché rebellious youth and pimples) written by Enid Starkie (and published in English by Siruela), an episode which is not given the importance it deserves and I, on the contrary, catalogaría as essential to understand the psychology of the French author. Namely, a Rimbaud 30 years away full of literature, and dedicated to the most varied professions (among them, the arms dealer and, perhaps, slaves) is found in Aden (Yemen) where he has returned from Harar (Ethiopian city) "with Abyssinian woman, probably a slave, "Starkie says (page 498), with the firm intention to make her his wife. To this end, he decided to send it to the French mission in the area to receive an education. However, in October 1885, taking advantage of the preparations for a trip, decide Rimbaud return to his country "giving him some money." In fact, "so is the repatriated properly. " That is, to marry, the former poet decides to buy a slave and cultivate his taste. It's interesting.

But stop a moment and accept that Rimbaud "important" is one beautiful and wild teen who wandered on the wild side of life in a pathetic company Verlaine. Remember the immortal Rimbaud is "A season in Hell", that of "Illuminations", the rebel and extremely gifted young spendthrift literature led to a confrontation deicide and inexplicably consumed when he was twenty years.

Although not so inexplicably. Exotic fantasies of the poet Charleville reeled in his books, his desire for adventure and experiences reflected in his poems, got the reward in the form of reality: Rimbaud abandons the literary exercise "to the age when others begin" and sets off, opting to provide his dreams true juvenile. And travel. And you risk. So far so good. It is even admirable. Not all are so brave. Almost no one is, in fact.

But the fate of the poet, far from cherry-picked lead to the triumph adventurer plunges into a succession of failed experiences, accidents, illness, murder, dubious morality and terrible loneliness. What looks like gold in the mind of a bourgeois hope be disgusted by, it becomes a nightmare subdued, not quite unbearable, but it gradually undermines and destroys the foundations of his brilliant intelligence. Rimbaud unlearn his life in a catastrophic choice that ultimately leads to long life which could be: the undisputed triumph, and so terribly far before the age of thirty.

And buy a slave ... Reading the hardship of the poet, it is surprising that at no time, you pass through my head the idea of \u200b\u200breturning to France (where his books begin to be known and revered by a court of fans who know the author) to take charge of their letters and / or sedentary bourgeois know some young man from "good family" of fine manners and raise a family with many children, become the prince of poets or a mere functionary. It remains a wild and even his quest for "normalcy" is full of lunatic behavior. Everything becomes ugly when you play Rimbaud. And he realizes it. And then get sick and die without having built his life as the young man thought. There are only refining their books as evidence of failure. He, during the years before his death, is upset when he recalls his past as a "wunderkind" of letters. No wonder. Rimbaud know what has happened and what no (which is even more serious and painful). As he said in one of her poems, once sat on the beauty on her knees and insulted. Picked up a bitter seed. Finally, it could not continue the charade, take it to the most painful extreme, deep loneliness knows who lost. It was his choice. He could never get rid of it. Did you really wanted?

Drawing Paul Verlaine. 1872

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not even the rain

The sky was to wait for Barbara Hershey behind every corner. The sky was eighties and New York. Missing (or not?) Michael Caine, wrapped in rancid trench coat. I looked out the window and noticed the changing landscape. I always thought that every time there is a light of its own, as is each generation that lives there. It is a baseless suspicion, but that gives reason to the past. Justified. To me it is enough. I return to it from time to time. The fundamental question is whether we can identify this with a promise of the past, seen or perceived even sideways in a single event in a person who looks or something you think. There is no place for such insights. Now it's better this way, a weight that takes away from him. Today's cars can build on the pools, while their mothers are snack children. And every act of dying itself. "It has always been, man." Yes, I know.

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again, and I know that last time, I'll talk about me. And, as a good shy, I am also an exhibitionist and taste (perhaps need) of the daily dose of self-glorification or justification for my attitudes and inclinations. I'm like (this "I" will not be the last of the text.)

When I was fifteen or sixteen years and was a frequent book Manichean barking against what appeared to me as the height of ideological imposition (of religion classes in my comfortable and not a little sinister charter schools), and even struggled tirelessly for the left (sorry, I meant left), with the eternal question on the lips when I talked about a writer or intellectual either: "Yes, but what is left?", found in the family library a copy of "The Philanthropic Ogre," by Octavio Paz. I asked, not created: "But let's see, what is left?".

The answer ("Not exactly, but it is a very fine intellectual") encouraged me to read it. Essential reading in my life. I have recently reminded again and I rescued the book from the shelf. I no longer is as bright as before, for peace (at least the Peace of 1978, year of publication of the book) seems far more superficial and excessive zeal for failing to appear as a reactionary, but I can say that its central design has been that, from his reading, has nurtured my political opinions. Namely, Peace focuses on the following points:

1) Review of the State as an organism with obvious (and almost inevitable) bureaucratic tendencies.
2) Criticism of "Real Socialism", the USSR and other countries in its orbit, as well as dictatorships that had been imposed at the time in different countries under the banner of Marxism-Leninism.
3) Criticism of the USSR-indulgent intellectuals who refused until they had no choice but the existence of concentration camps.
4) Defense of pluralistic and democratic society against totalitarian tendencies.
5) defense of political freedom as a prerequisite for a just society.

Accepting the fact that his criticism of the totalitarian systems of the "Eastern Block" responded to a short-term need, I believe that general conclusions can be drawn today. Above all, the contempt the "formal freedoms" that many accompanied by an invocation of the state as mayor of plausible economic and political excesses. In short, the loss of "bellows" of the idea of \u200b\u200brule of law against the political state and interventionist heavily armed.
exceeded
I did not want to explain something, it meant that my text more lyrical evocation of my youth, perhaps more personal, not so attached to the data of a book in my life has been more than that ("Paul, a turning point?" I hate that phrase). Maybe I've always wanted to be Octavio Paz. A provocative ideological, a scholar traveler and connoisseur of thousand traditions, able to drop appointments and referrals without my disheveled his toupee. I do not know if I seek to become. Probably not. Do not even know if I want (or what I can). But for a time, at least helped me to be free of restraints and prejudices and inspired in me a love of place me on the counter in any circumstance or discussion. I missed that time, more than illusion that analysis, I must admit, and therefore I have reviewed the excellent (though too long and perhaps somewhat overblown) Soler Serrano interview Nobel Prize. I had never heard the voice of Octavio Paz before seeing this document. I was surprised by the mannerisms of poet (I expected a rough or a threshold Fernan Gomez), but I enjoyed the peace of the era of "The Philanthropic Ogre," in full power.

I've seen who rescues a toy box: happy by finding even recognize what I marveled at him, but unable to accept it as absolutely vital reference. Not even looking for something like that. Perhaps take some of their apparent calm and balance and keep it to myself.

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Peace Be Blonde Paradise


that sort of Sharapova was walking just in the middle of the new pedestrian street, and perhaps take an mp3 or just being happy, but together the arms to the body and drew two right angles, palms of the hands, like wings. And I realized that all this expression of central and color on a street that already is loud and quickly becomes accustomed to the parties and the puppets, brought to light the impropriety of forcing a show. Suffice it to cite one example, if "November", the film Achero Manas. Not that I like, but directly I am against street performances. As I see it, art has meaning only if consent of the artist and audience. I hate the "performances." Without going any further, last weekend, two players (to call them somehow) disguised as cowboys "Far West" broke into my street (the street that a couple of days later I walked Sharapova) and performed scenes of mourning and went into the stores asking if they sold spurs. Such idiocy deserves at least an occasional insult passers-by, but in my city, to the maximum reached is to draw a stupid smile, what it calls "that you face is dumb" . I came to buy bread and got overcome with true professionalism and skill to my "artists."

But two days later, the street forced to art (how much damage is done Capital of Culture for 2016!), was illuminated by a presence no ads, no action, no message or purpose. The eternal feminine walk, taking about my street and intensely nourishing sexual nature. And then I realized (and to my amazement I digested quietly) that the top woman in the blue and white pants was blonde. What I mean is that this woman was (is, I imagine and hope) BLONDE with great harmony and embodies what the blonde is in our broken society. Because, okay, some prefer brunettes (or simply do not do that type of discrimination), but, please, gentlemen, IS BLONDE! It took me a moment because I do not know how it will end this text. I keep (profit).

is true that hell is other people, but also heaven. And I thought that the personal development of young blonde and imagine listening to phrases like: "Oh, if it looks like an angel!" Since childhood. And maybe live in awe (and not a little curious) the change from girl to woman and with it the passage of a celestial creature object of desire. I think of it, going into any store and undisguised admiration of other customers. And I imagine the faces of the thousand and one gadflies, compliments of forced and vulgar, his triumph, finally, together with any similar. In a normal situation, it is unthinkable to relate it to any kind of suffering.

This young woman is an archetype. She is blond and beautiful, as a topic any of this decadent postmodernism. But we, or rather, have. And won. It's better this way, after all. But I'm tangled in prejudice. I.

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two nights ago, I exchanged phone messages with a friend about the desire (veiled child permanently postponed) to break from the urban concrete and cynicism to flee to western landscapes nice. If I am to be honest, my position in the conversation was that of Europe was delighted with the fact of his birth away random landscapes "Natural" in Africa. And, really, I'm tempted to escape the civilized world, I'm a drawing and a bigot? I am. Is it insulting my claim? It can be. José Saramago
And die and I remember that in September 1998 when I signed in Santander a book ("The traveler's luggage), just days before being awarded the Nobel Prize. And I remember his black-rimmed glasses and unfashionable at the time, and curly hair that seemed strong and slip through the neck-white strips.
And I realize that I have lost all connection with intellectual Saramago and both admired and even in recent years, the figure is not conveyed to me stoicism, grace and kindness that seduced me strong so long ago. Retain the admiration for the writer Saramago ("Blindness", "The Gospel According to Jesus" ...), but it is not the same. I will not go here to assess the Portuguese political figure. I do not care, that's all.
Anyway, the idea of \u200b\u200breflective old writer, erect as an oak against which nothing can be the siren song of more frivolous cultural center, near the present debate, but also far enough to avoid being dragged the ideological onslaught, married to a woman Young (eternal fantasy not politically correct), living on an island ... It's all part of an ideal life quite appetizing.
And the fortune to work the words, to understand writing as a profession and not a conjuring trick.
But I met years and things have happened. And that distrust secular vocation to holiness and his critical stance against a commercialized world. Utopia creates monsters and creates mass. And there's nothing more dangerous than turned-mass society and convinced to have a historic responsibility. I hate uniforms. And I think in shades of colors after that nothing.

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Ancestral Voices The Eighty Years


Through Ireland Irish and Irish Catholicism, Joyce ancestral voices heard callers. Recognized as the voices of sirens and, as his model, Ulysses, is tied to the mast, not to follow them and drown. It was good for his art to do so. He resisted them, not because they despise, as suggested by some of his modern admirers, but he feared the power that could have on him. After all, they were voices of their ancestors. As are mine.

Conor Cruise O'Brien, "Ancestral Voices. Religion and Nationalism in Ireland", The University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1995 (2 nd ed.), P. 49.

Translated and quoted by Jon Juaristi, "The Loop Melancholy. Stories of Basque nationalists." Espasa Calpe, 1997.

(Photograph by Eamonn McCabe.)

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Gary Snyder Sara

Gary Snyder yesterday turned eighty. The American poet, winner of the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1975, inspired the character Japhy Ryder in the novel "The Dharma Bums" by Jack Kerouac and the author of a work which reflects his Buddhist philosophy and knowledge of nature .

We Make Our Vows Together with All
Beings

Eating a sandwich at work in the woods,

As a doe nibbles in snow

buckbrush

Watching Each Other,

Chewing together.

A Bomber from Beale

Over the clouds,

Fills the sky with a roar.

She lifts head, listens,

Waits till the sound has gone by.

So do I.

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Collect



Year 1975. Bob Dylan, immersed in her marital problems with Sara Lownds, begins in New York recording his album Desire, composite disc halves with the playwright Jacques Levy. The couples had long separated. However, the last day of July there was an important fact. Soun Howard tells it well in his book "Bob Dylan biography"

Sara Dylan appeared suddenly on the night of the second meeting, on 31 July. "I think he had gone to New York to see if there was any chance of reconciliation. I think that was what she thought. And I'm sure that's what he thought, "says Levy, who had not seen Sarah in the summer (she had been vacationing in Mexico). Bob came back into the studio with his band and picked up the guitar. Sang "Sara" for his wife as she watched from the other side of the glass (...)
"It was extraordinary. There was not a fly-Levy says. She was quite impressed. And I think that moment marked a turn of events ... It worked. The two reconciled in truth again. " That extraordinary first shot of "Sara" was the last issue of Desire.

However, finally breaking the marriage would end two years later.

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- seems to be vanishing any hope of happiness.

- Well, I think, clearly, is exaggerating.

- Believe me, you do not know this woman. We have had so much time at all in the palm of your hand ...

- I loves you, do not give as many laps in the lead, man. Furthermore, it is precisely this. She is now in the house because he wants it.

- No, the important thing is that she is now at home. Alone in the house and I'm here talking to you, understand?

- Let's see. Do not do bad blood. As told me, he has gone to collect her things. She is waiting. Will do its part and it will be only her and you. Not a bad plan.

- seems impossible, Pepe, seems lie you do not know the capacity of women to turn any moment into an opportunity for betrayal.

- But, man ...

- Who tells me that she has invited him to go to have a coffee?

- Do not be ridiculous. A polite gesture.

- From coffee to bed no more than a detail, a look, a memory ...

- This can kill you, do not continue. At the end eventually created an entire frame in the head and that will destroy him. Let it be. Enjoy the confidence. That is also possible. Having a beer, as it is doing now, talking to me. And laugh and tell me of the crisis or football. God knows it can not be so lifelong friend. Change the subject. Sit on the stool. I will put the party. I think that is about to start ...

- Three Years. That does not magically disappear. Embers are always Do not they say that? I am the outcast. Talk to you while she may be approaching it. You might think: "In the old days" or "One of farewell." So does the head of the people. And then I say "got back feelings I thought dead."

- Look, everything is possible "Maybe she is now jumping into the subject in question? Is possible, of course. And it's better that way, do not hesitate. If you have to be will be. Everything is as it should be. We always have, at the end.

- Very Zen seems to me that.

- Zen is not life. At any other time, you could be her, or even that man.

- Of course. But now I am the victim.

- But what victim? You are someone who goes to watch a game with me right now and I'll invite a couple of beers "What about? You may feel lucky.

- Nice try, really. But I have to go.

- Do not go, man of God.

- I have to.

- Look, it begins the party.

- Leave. Is useless.

- accept me another beer, at least, before leaving.

- It's late. I have to go home.

Tiffiny Graneths Husband

Journey to the West to save my marriage

was the whole issue of the bear's head,
suspended in the air, they evaporate
threats to fix
naively in an instant. I knew that the formulas
impact
always and never give up and ozone
and congestion as a constant smoke.

An atmosphere of Frank Miller,
the shield that the city has in front of the eye
greening strange
or hours remaining for night, which must be
insubordination.

A black
out of his car and another driver
insults and kicks on their wheels
while screaming in English and swear and repeat
something about death and testicles.

The proud woman at the wheel, without turning tells us
"Welcome to New York City"
and everything makes sense ironically spring
a taste of pumpkin.

He had grown his hair
and
two ladies looked at him, frowning: "Where has said it is?"

"Oh, it's a good place, believe it," and the conversation fell

to near extinction in a low murmur insubstantial, vague

that threat is not yet deep
but survived, after waiting a long time.

The fleeting succession of names and manners
hidden. The women laugh and open

both the mouth leaving it the chocolate stuck to the palate.

"My dear friend, what are you doing here?
why come?
You go to the league. Are you clear, kid. "

The landscape feeds
looks empty, but they think they see
whether it would be better leave

time and act. But be sure not
caught the joke despite the obvious tone
abject

needless to say, the crusts from
most eccentric behavior and disrespect.

not want to think about touching, but understands ...

"Why did she?
What you could not give? "

And he smiles and, finally, create
be on solid ground.

"We do not act that way,
ladies, we have never worried
for women's literature."

"But what Woolf? What Pizarnik? What about Zambrano? "

(She draws on her face an expression of admiration).

"We understand, right? In my day it was impossible. "

Long avenues, there are always children and young
with different tips, and German models, with a strange
like Johanna Wokalek.


And God knows the stubborn presence
tea and snuff, and incense, if
thought long about it, without much depth.

"What will you say?"

"Oh, I am nothing, nothing."

The two ladies, great and happy,
know forgiveness, after all,
of indecent
use geography to describe a mood.

"My son left the pigs. Has risen and will not be
more than one operator, a mechanic. " He feels

observed with maternal eyes.

"Do you eat well? Take a cake, honey. My husband complains
this long winter.
says it all the time. "

and dizziness comes suddenly, like a tide
and closes her eyes the man alone. The fat
whisper: "Poor, watch it, is exhausted."

promises steel arise. Witchcraft
between tablecloths, comfortable by smoke.

God knows,
yes, He knows what he could give in return
to be covered until
eyes in the bed of a European room.

"I'll be honest, ladies,
this is a weapon."

He points to his bag.

"Really? Can we touch it? "

He rubs his hands.

"I came. That's all. "

"Oh, we know. It will be important. "

Of course, satisfaction is an exaggerated sense

for this moment.

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do not know why I've always found Castilla with a crude idea of \u200b\u200btruth. For me, Castilla is a material witness, tactile ground truth compared to other places, perhaps more gentle in appearance. So that we understand it is as if it were the earth in its basic sense, not the rhetoric of a happy landscape. Castilla as a factory, where the instrument that is built is handled deftly, with no major distractions that faithful and consistent implementation of a trade. Perhaps it was because, for me, is a groove just marking my roots (if a man can have that) and a secret A sleeping earth my hopes.

Speaking with the Spaniards, the people of functional beauty, always surrounded by the silence of centuries. As the field empty at first glance, it does not need more color to look and feel human. And the horizon, marking the end with more dust, almost smoldering in oceans and promise of adventure.

A place of Jews and Moors. A border, perhaps suspended in time, waiting for a reason to revive it. A slow and tiring. Cold and dry heat. This does not smile for no good reason. It is the conclusion of a story that really has starred and reaches the end, and it offers nothing of Me.

In the same architecture, which seems to embrace the earth, rather than imposed, and offers a vision of God has always fit. A god without color, marking by Stoic philosophy, and Teresa and John, where life does not seem different from most mobile Perhaps death by love, which is melancholy about the brown earth.

Dr Seuss Inspired Birthday Invitation Rhyme

Earth can not bear

There is a palm where it should not. The square die in a dark street. Have dwarfed the curb an outbreak of terrace house. The palm gives the song if you think about it. One, however, can walk and not be aware. A young man wears a leash to a beagle puppy, he sniffs the fence and then mark it. When I was younger, guess the exact age of the people. The girl could be seventeen or twenty. I just dont know. The sun has risen and they are beggars on the corners. Shout for manera exagerada. Dicen que ahora hay grupos organizados que se reparten la ciudad y acaparan la generosidad (o displicencia) de los ciudadanos de un modo burocrático y profesional. Eso no está bien, pero me pregunto si cabe hacer juicios morales en asuntos de este tipo. La calle se abre a plazas minúsculas, indiferentes. Hace tiempo que cerraron aquel bar donde bebíamos cerveza Kronenburg y comíamos raciones de pulpo a la gallega. Ahora hay un banco norteamericano. De niño me caí cerca de una farmacia que aún existe y me hice una brecha junto al ojo, que todavía conservo. Curiosamente, esta calle en forma de embudo no parece hecha para días de sol. La luz rebota en los cristales de los numerosos escaparates y deslumbra. La calle calls for rain, as the cafes asking smoke. The whole landscape of umbrellas, which seems inscribed in the sidewalk taciturn nature, the succession of stores specializing in jewelry and other nonsense that cause a look of disbelief on the viewer. How do they survive? It is fatal to realize that geography is reassuring. What happens is that this is something already trodden. And his sentence, which is only tantrum, going by the description. And I know that reality is not with me in this fight. But, you know: to destroy the temple, you must have built before.

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The two girls sat on the couch. The old came with the tray.

- Do you want sugar with your tea?

- No, thanks, "replied the brunette. The redhead said nothing.

There was a moment of silence. The old playing with the lace apron. The two young people showed signs of nervousness.

- Have you come by something related to my child? - Asked finally.

They said his head.

- you will say.

At that time, the youngest son of the old lady entered the room. The two girls turned to look.

- Is your child?

- Yes

The brunette turned to his companion.

- like much, does it?

- is true.

The boy looked at his mother.

- All right, Mom?

- Yes, dear. Return to the room. Do not worry.

He did not move. He watched the two girls, who, in turn, stared back quizzically. He was a tall, lanky boy, about fourteen years. It was playing with the straps of the overalls. His mother was with lace apron in hand. That detail did not go unnoticed by the brunette, who smiled to see the family resemblance. The redhead winked. He looked down.

- Are you going or not - the mother insisted.

The redhead stood.

- Do you care to use the bathroom?

- at all, dear ... Son, show the path.

The brunette sat on the couch and stretched to serve tea. The old woman looked accompanied with her young son and the girl, until she could no longer see them.

- like much, right?

- Who?

- to his eldest son, of course.

- Yes .. So they say. Obviously, do not look at everything. My youngest son is special.

The brunette did not answer. Looked around the living room. It was clear the old lady was trying to keep your home looking good. Everything was very clean and tidy. The decoration showing a bad taste not too disheartening. Blew into the cup, extremely long time and took a drink.

- You can imagine the reason for our visit.

- Absolutely. He posed

the cup on the table. Smoothed her skirt, which had shriveled slightly.

- You see, ma'am. Come by something that her eldest son left here before leaving. Something special, if you know what I mean.

The old woman gave no sign of knowing what was the matter.

- Look, ma'am, "the brunette continued," you know perfectly what it is. Or am I going to tell unsuspecting? Two young girls who come home ... You follow me?

The old woman shrugged her shoulders and a smile that wanted to go through conciliation.

- The truth is that no daughter.

The brunette snorted violently, wiping out all of a sudden the atmosphere of cordiality that seemed to have settled over the room. He got up and began pacing around the living room to a stop next to the window.

- want money, eh? Well ... We can discuss it. How much are we talking, exactly? Come on, put a figure.

The old woman was beginning restless. He thought up when the brunette did, but assumed that she would take it as a challenge and feared a backlash.

The brunette seemed to recover gradually the soft mood that had shown at first.

- I know what happens. We all know the talent of his son. And we, more than anyone, we want something that may have left. We are not like those scavengers who have spent months hanging around her house, ma'am. We do not want pictures of the "home of the hero, or steal their toys as a child. We just want what they left.

The old woman tried to explain that she and her son had not talked much recent years. In the overnight, he went from being a shy high school student in the village school to become a musical celebrity. So much for a young boy. Two studio albums, one live and a compilation with three new songs were enough to erect a symbol of the new wave music. While that was a facade. In the art scene, were well known that the boy kept dabbling with drugs and alcohol. An autopsy after the accident confirmed an intoxicated incompatible with driving.


*

The boy accompanied the redhead upstairs and pointed to the bathroom door. She passed him, gave him a smile and moved on. He stopped before a door that had hit the letter J.

- Is this your room?

- Yes.

- Does shared with your brother?

- Yes

- Relax, pal, I'm not going to bite.

He smiled and looked down.

- Now it all to myself.

The girl entered the room. A typical den teen: clothes on the floor, drawers open, a basketball in the middle, a poster of Michael Jordan going to the basket. She sat on the bed. Cabinet door hung a photograph of actress Jessica Alba.

- Go, go, "she said mockingly.




* Apparently, shortly after the accident, the artistic circles of the capital began to circulate rumors about the existence of a blue cooler (typical picnic) containing a few pots of sperm the musician. The fans (especially the fans) the group sent letters to newspapers demanding the holding of an auction of such a precious seed. The matter went so far that even the representative of the band was forced out in a press conference to flatly deny the existence of this fridge.

- Those who truly wanted his son never believed these explanations we cheap. We know the bar exists. We've looked everywhere. And yesterday I told my companion: "You have to be in town." And here we are.

The old woman shook her head in denial. Suddenly he noticed something.

- Long takes for your partner. I'll see if it's okay.

The brunette stood in his way.

- Leave it. Only a little sick of the journey. Sit down, please. Maybe I'm a bit nervous. I do not want to get upset. There are only two women who wanted his son very much. Sit down, be Please.

The old woman obeyed.

- We are like sisters ... More than that. If something happens, I would die. His son was the most important thing for us.

The old woman refused to name his daughter. The woman had not been present since the will was read. Began to hear noises upstairs. Very heavy footsteps, furniture being dragged. The old woman took a sip of his tea, which was almost cold. He poured a little more of the teapot. The lamp is moved.

- I understand that you want to keep that last memory of her son. I understand perfectly. I too am a woman, just like you.

She said nod. The noise suddenly stopped. Everything was in a strange state of peace that seemed to erase the tension that had dominated the conversation just a few minutes earlier.

Then appeared the redhead and the youngest.

- All right? - Asked the old lady.

- All right. I was just a little sick of the journey.

- I said I stepped in the dark "Are you better?

- Yes

- Well, let's go.

- Come on.

The brunette redhead helped with her coat. He stroked her back gently.

- We're going. The tea was delicious.

The old woman looked at her youngest son who, in turn, looked at an unspecified location between the floor and back of the redhead.

- Thank you for everything.

- I regret not having been more helpful. But you can not mortgage your future, thinking about my son. He was gone and not coming back.

The redhead bowed her head and bit her lower lip. The old woman did not know whether to cry or smile.

- Well, farewell.

The two young women hugging away. They had stopped the car nearby. Before you climb, the redhead turned to wink at the boy again. He blushed and raised his hand to say goodbye. It was almost time dinner and were hungry.

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Visitation girl Ascó

say that your people has applied to host the cemetery

nuclear
there is much revelry and parades, and the girls
all gone to the hairdresser.


elders say the gesture and twist
shrug his shoulders and not his war, grab the handles

and follow his own.

Young, they say, are
excited, know
unique opportunity to which they are,

and shout and sing and shut
send the usual spoilers.

Nobody talks about you and I just want
that if your people elected,

finish with three eyes or your kids go green.

90th Birthday Invocations

Elisabeth Craig was the American dancer, born in 1902, Céline had met in Geneva in late 1926 or early 1927, and he lived in Paris from 1927 to 1933, a very open, interrupted by stays of Elisabeth in the United States. Henri Mahé describes it thus: "Great cobalt green eyes [...]. Fine little nose ... A rectangular face and sensual [...]. Pulling long red golden hair in ringlets to his shoulders "(The Brinquebale avec Céline.)

In one of the first interviews after the publication of Journey to the End of the Night, Céline appointment as one of three teachers: `an American dancer who has taught me all about the rhythm, music and movement '( interview with M. Bromberger, Cahiers Céline, I, pp. 31-32).

In June 1933, Elisabeth went to the United States temporarily thought Celine, but this time did not return and he used his trip to the United States in the summer of 1934 to go to Los Angeles to try to persuade her to return France. But Elisabeth had decided to break. Céline always remembered the last meeting, on which we lack secure information, like a nightmare. No doubt that Elisabeth was the woman who was more united and played more than any other, a role in his life.

* Carlos Manzano (Note to the translation of "Journey to the End of the Night" by Louis-Ferdinand Céline).

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Elisabeth Craig * Game *

His smooth belly warns us that his decision, his threat was not only talk so young! How many? "Nineteen? Then I looked older, dammit. How did you come? I made it very clear that he did not return. I offered to pay (for chivalry, nothing else), I think I behaved well, as far as it goes. Also, I had no duty to her. I could have kicked out of the room. But what did I do? In a weak attempt at improper of me, I said go ahead, that I deal with him (or her, I've never had qualms), which was quiet. But it was a girl. I wanted to stay in the game. I've never seen anyone drink so much, dancing both, get both ... and now back with the gesture of wanting to settle scores. But what accounts for what, hell?

* Inspired by the photograph titled "Looks that kill" by Raphael Feliz Puigros.