Este post no tiene link, pq es algo que soñe.
Ahí les va. Fue un poco angustiante.
Soñe que iba caminando en la calle con algún amigo, no se quién era. De pronto llegaba un auto conducido por una mujer (creo que era un VW o un Tsuru, rojo por cierto) y me atropellaba. Mi amigo lo esquivaba por completo, y yo, sólo alcanzaba a dar un brinco para que no me pegue de lleno y caía en el cofre/parabrisas.
No me pasaba nada, pero la chava en vez de detenerse para ver como estaba, solo veía por el espejo y se seguía.
Yo, encabronado, decidía seguirla. La encontraba (muy campante) dentro de un cine con una amiga. Esto me encabronaba más.
Sacaba de mi bolsa el famoso gas pimienta (no se de donde lo saqué) y se lo rociaba en la cara.
El gas pimienta no le hacía nada, me comentaba ella que era pq traía unos lentes de contacto.
Le volvía a rociar, con más coraje.
Y nada. La chava tan campante.
De pronto me doy cuenta que le estoy rociando, en vez de gas pimienta, agua de esa Evian que se usa para refrescar e hidratar la cara.
Le estaba echando agua!!!!
Alguien me puede explicar mi sueño?
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Este post no tiene link, pq es algo que soñe.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Este cuento lo recomienda Vonnegut. Dice que es magistral la frase "She was tired"
A ver que les parece.
SHE sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue. Her head was leaned against the window curtains and in her nostrils was the odour of dusty cretonne. She was tired.
Few people passed. The man out of the last house passed on his way home; she heard his footsteps clacking along the concrete pavement and afterwards crunching on the cinder path before the new red houses. One time there used to be a field there in which they used to play every evening with other people's children. Then a man from Belfast bought the field and built houses in it -- not like their little brown houses but bright brick houses with shining roofs. The children of the avenue used to play together in that field -- the Devines, the Waters, the Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers and sisters. Ernest, however, never played: he was too grown up. Her father used often to hunt them in out of the field with his blackthorn stick; but usually little Keogh used to keep nix and call out when he saw her father coming. Still they seemed to have been rather happy then. Her father was not so bad then; and besides, her mother was alive. That was a long time ago; she and her brothers and sisters were all grown up her mother was dead. Tizzie Dunn was dead, too, and the Waters had gone back to England. Everything changes. Now she was going to go away like the others, to leave her home.
Home! She looked round the room, reviewing all its familiar objects which she had dusted once a week for so many years, wondering where on earth all the dust came from. Perhaps she would never see again those familiar objects from which she had never dreamed of being divided. And yet during all those years she had never found out the name of the priest whose yellowing photograph hung on the wall above the broken harmonium beside the coloured print of the promises made to Blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque. He had been a school friend of her father. Whenever he showed the photograph to a visitor her father used to pass it with a casual word:
"He is in Melbourne now."
She had consented to go away, to leave her home. Was that wise? She tried to weigh each side of the question. In her home anyway she had shelter and food; she had those whom she had known all her life about her. O course she had to work hard, both in the house and at business. What would they say of her in the Stores when they found out that she had run away with a fellow? Say she was a fool, perhaps; and her place would be filled up by advertisement. Miss Gavan would be glad. She had always had an edge on her, especially whenever there were people listening.
"Miss Hill, don't you see these ladies are waiting?"
"Look lively, Miss Hill, please."
She would not cry many tears at leaving the Stores.
But in her new home, in a distant unknown country, it would not be like that. Then she would be married -- she, Eveline. People would treat her with respect then. She would not be treated as her mother had been. Even now, though she was over nineteen, she sometimes felt herself in danger of her father's violence. She knew it was that that had given her the palpitations. When they were growing up he had never gone for her like he used to go for Harry and Ernest, because she was a girl but latterly he had begun to threaten her and say what he would do to her only for her dead mother's sake. And no she had nobody to protect her. Ernest was dead and Harry, who was in the church decorating business, was nearly always down somewhere in the country. Besides, the invariable squabble for money on Saturday nights had begun to weary her unspeakably. She always gave her entire wages -- seven shillings -- and Harry always sent up what he could but the trouble was to get any money from her father. He said she used to squander the money, that she had no head, that he wasn't going to give her his hard-earned money to throw about the streets, and much more, for he was usually fairly bad on Saturday night. In the end he would give her the money and ask her had she any intention of buying Sunday's dinner. Then she had to rush out as quickly as she could and do her marketing, holding her black leather purse tightly in her hand as she elbowed her way through the crowds and returning home late under her load of provisions. She had hard work to keep the house together and to see that the two young children who had been left to hr charge went to school regularly and got their meals regularly. It was hard work -- a hard life -- but now that she was about to leave it she did not find it a wholly undesirable life.
She was about to explore another life with Frank. Frank was very kind, manly, open-hearted. She was to go away with him by the night-boat to be his wife and to live with him in Buenos Ayres where he had a home waiting for her. How well she remembered the first time she had seen him; he was lodging in a house on the main road where she used to visit. It seemed a few weeks ago. He was standing at the gate, his peaked cap pushed back on his head and his hair tumbled forward over a face of bronze. Then they had come to know each other. He used to meet her outside the Stores every evening and see her home. He took her to see The Bohemian Girl and she felt elated as she sat in an unaccustomed part of the theatre with him. He was awfully fond of music and sang a little. People knew that they were courting and, when he sang about the lass that loves a sailor, she always felt pleasantly confused. He used to call her Poppens out of fun. First of all it had been an excitement for her to have a fellow and then she had begun to like him. He had tales of distant countries. He had started as a deck boy at a pound a month on a ship of the Allan Line going out to Canada. He told her the names of the ships he had been on and the names of the different services. He had sailed through the Straits of Magellan and he told her stories of the terrible Patagonians. He had fallen on his feet in Buenos Ayres, he said, and had come over to the old country just for a holiday. Of course, her father had found out the affair and had forbidden her to have anything to say to him.
"I know these sailor chaps," he said.
One day he had quarrelled with Frank and after that she had to meet her lover secretly.
The evening deepened in the avenue. The white of two letters in her lap grew indistinct. One was to Harry; the other was to her father. Ernest had been her favourite but she liked Harry too. Her father was becoming old lately, she noticed; he would miss her. Sometimes he could be very nice. Not long before, when she had been laid up for a day, he had read her out a ghost story and made toast for her at the fire. Another day, when their mother was alive, they had all gone for a picnic to the Hill of Howth. She remembered her father putting on her mothers bonnet to make the children laugh.
Her time was running out but she continued to sit by the window, leaning her head against the window curtain, inhaling the odour of dusty cretonne. Down far in the avenue she could hear a street organ playing. She knew the air Strange that it should come that very night to remind her of the promise to her mother, her promise to keep the home together as long as she could. She remembered the last night of her mother's illness; she was again in the close dark room at the other side of the hall and outside she heard a melancholy air of Italy. The organ-player had been ordered to go away and given sixpence. She remembered her father strutting back into the sickroom saying:
"Damned Italians! coming over here!"
As she mused the pitiful vision of her mother's life laid its spell on the very quick of her being -- that life of commonplace sacrifices closing in final craziness. She trembled as she heard again her mother's voice saying constantly with foolish insistence:
"Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!"
She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She must escape! Frank would save her. He would give her life, perhaps love, too. But she wanted to live. Why should she be unhappy? She had a right to happiness. Frank would take her in his arms, fold her in his arms. He would save her.
She stood among the swaying crowd in the station at the North Wall. He held her hand and she knew that he was speaking to her, saying something about the passage over and over again. The station was full of soldiers with brown baggages. Through the wide doors of the sheds she caught a glimpse of the black mass of the boat, lying in beside the quay wall, with illumined portholes. She answered nothing. She felt her cheek pale and cold and, out of a maze of distress, she prayed to God to direct her, to show her what was her duty. The boat blew a long mournful whistle into the mist. If she went, tomorrow she would be on the sea with Frank, steaming towards Buenos Ayres. Their passage had been booked. Could she still draw back after all he had done for her? Her distress awoke a nausea in her body and she kept moving her lips in silent fervent prayer.
A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand:
All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing her into them: he would drown her. She gripped with both hands at the iron railing.
No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy. Amid the seas she sent a cry of anguish.
He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition.
Literature Network » James Joyce » Eveline
Perdón por lo largo de este post. Pero me gustan las reglas del Vonegut. Es categórico pero es inteligente. Y para que no anden navegando por otros espacios, aqui las pego directamente. Igual les dejo el link en el título por si las flies.
Y pues para todos los que escriben o les gusta escribir, creo que les pueden servir.
Además en el próximo post, les voy a dejar un gran cuento (sobre el que comenta algo Vonnegut) del maestro Joyce.
Aqui las reglas.
Ah, gracias Ana, acepto la invitación a conocer al mago. Soy su fan.
How to Write With Style
by Kurt Vonnegut
Newspaper reporters and technical writers are trained to reveal almost nothing about themselves in their writings. This makes them freaks in the world of writers, since almost all of the other ink-stained wretches in that world reveal a lot about themselves to readers. We call these revelations, accidental and intentional, elements of style.
These revelations tell us as readers what sort of person it is with whom we are spending time. Does the writer sound ignorant or informed, stupid or bright, crooked or honest, humorless or playful-- ? And on and on.
Why should you examine your writing style with the idea of improving it? Do so as a mark of respect for your readers, whatever you're writing. If you scribble your thoughts any which way, your readers will surely feel that you care nothing about them. They will mark you down as an egomaniac or a chowderhead --- or, worse, they will stop reading you.
The most damning revelation you can make about yourself is that you do not know what is interesting and what is not. Don't you yourself like or dislike writers mainly for what they choose to show you or make you think about? Did you ever admire an emptyheaded writer for his or her mastery of the language? No.
So your own winning style must begin with ideas in your head.
1. Find a subject you care about
Find a subject you care about and which you in your heart feel others should care about. It is this genuine caring, and not your games with language, which will be the most compelling and seductive element in your style.
I am not urging you to write a novel, by the way --- although I would not be sorry if you wrote one, provided you genuinely cared about something. A petition to the mayor about a pothole in front of your house or a love letter to the girl next door will do.
2. Do not ramble, though
I won't ramble on about that.
3. Keep it simple
As for your use of language: Remember that two great masters of language, William Shakespeare and James Joyce, wrote sentences which were almost childlike when their subjects were most profound. "To be or not to be?" asks Shakespeare's Hamlet. The longest word is three letters long. Joyce, when he was frisky, could put together a sentence as intricate and as glittering as a necklace for Cleopatra, but my favorite sentence in his short story "Eveline" is this one: "She was tired." At that point in the story, no other words could break the heart of a reader as those three words do.
Simplicity of language is not only reputable, but perhaps even sacred. The Bible opens with a sentence well within the writing skills of a lively fourteen-year-old: "In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth."
4. Have guts to cut
It may be that you, too, are capable of making necklaces for Cleopatra, so to speak. But your eloquence should be the servant of the ideas in your head. Your rule might be this: If a sentence, no matter how excellent, does not illuminate your subject in some new and useful way, scratch it out.
5. Sound like yourself
The writing style which is most natural for you is bound to echo the speech you heard when a child. English was Conrad's third language, and much that seems piquant in his use of English was no doubt colored by his first language, which was Polish. And lucky indeed is the writer who has grown up in Ireland, for the English spoken there is so amusing and musical. I myself grew up in Indianapolis, where common speech sounds like a band saw cutting galvanized tin, and employs a vocabulary as unornamental as a monkey wrench.
In some of the more remote hollows of Appalachia, children still grow up hearing songs and locutions of Elizabethan times. Yes, and many Americans grow up hearing a language other than English, or an English dialect a majority of Americans cannot understand.
All these varieties of speech are beautiful, just as the varieties of butterflies are beautiful. No matter what your first language, you should treasure it all your life. If it happens to not be standard English, and if it shows itself when your write standard English, the result is usually delightful, like a very pretty girl with one eye that is green and one that is blue.
I myself find that I trust my own writing most, and others seem to trust it most, too, when I sound most like a person from Indianapolis, which is what I am. What alternatives do I have? The one most vehemently recommended by teachers has no doubt been pressed on you, as well: to write like cultivated Englishmen of a century or more ago.
6. Say what you mean
I used to be exasperated by such teachers, but am no more. I understand now that all those antique essays and stories with which I was to compare my own work were not magnificent for their datedness or foreignness, but for saying precisely what their authors meant them to say. My teachers wished me to write accurately, always selecting the most effective words, and relating the words to one another unambiguously, rigidly, like parts of a machine. The teachers did not want to turn me into an Englishman after all. They hoped that I would become understandable --- and therefore understood. And there went my dream of doing with words what Pablo Picasso did with paint or what any number of jazz idols did with music. If I broke all the rules of punctuation, had words mean whatever I wanted them to mean, and strung them together higgledy-piggledy, I would simply not be understood. So you, too, had better avoid Picasso-style or jazz-style writing, if you have something worth saying and wish to be understood.
Readers want our pages to look very much like pages they have seen before. Why? This is because they themselves have a tough job to do, and they need all the help they can get from us.
7. Pity the readers
They have to identify thousands of little marks on paper, and make sense of them immediately. They have to read, an art so difficult that most people don't really master it even after having studied it all through grade school and high school --- twelve long years.
So this discussion must finally acknowledge that our stylistic options as writers are neither numerous nor glamorous, since our readers are bound to be such imperfect artists. Our audience requires us to be sympathetic and patient readers, ever willing to simplify and clarify --- whereas we would rather soar high above the crowd, singing like nightingales.
That is the bad news. The good news is that we Americans are governed under a unique Constitution, which allows us to write whatever we please without fear of punishment. So the most meaningful aspect of our styles, which is what we choose to write about, is utterly unlimited.
8. For really detailed advice
For a discussion of literary style in a narrower sense, in a more technical sense, I recommend to your attention The Elements of Style, by William Strunk, Jr. and E.B. White. E.B. White is, of course, one of the most admirable literary stylists this country has so far produced.
You should realize, too, that no one would care how well or badly Mr. White expressed himself, if he did not have perfectly enchanting things to say.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Veanlo bien, con detenimiento, disfruuuuuutenlo. Me hizo el viernes. Es muy bueno. Yo se de alguien que por ahi estaria feliz de ver esto hecho realidad. Es una pobre madre joven ya trastornada por el personaje que veran a continuacion.
Ya les habia diche de santiago creel? cual es su colmo?
que lo corrieron del PAN por comerse un bizcochito! Ja!!
Que buena silla!! Es de Alessandro Beda y aun es un prototipo. Va a requerir 100 minitanques de gas que funcionen como amortiguadores.
Leyeron el del mago septien de ana torres? Muy recomendable. Gran tipo el mago.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Aquí les dejo una crónica muy interesante del Mago Septién, dice muchas cosas de él que yo no sabía.
La crónica es de Ana Torres y les dejo el link de su Blog (Ana en el Pantano) en el título.
Gracias Ana, si te vuelves a meter por aquí.
El Mago, Leyenda viva
Una casa azúl como el color “con el que te ves muy guapa”, bastante vieja y decadente, en plena avenida politécnico nacional, entre comercios de uno y otro lado entre los que se erige como única sobreviviente de una época en que la colonia Lindavista era un lugar exclusivo, ahora está sucia y descuidada afligida por los claxonazos de la congestionada avenida. El “Mago” Septién nos abre la puerta con unas manos largas y afiladas propias de un pianista, arrugadas, manchadas y velludas, evidencian los 91 años que cargan a cuestas. De impecable pantalón de vestir gris oxford, zapatos recién boleados y camisa cuello de tortuga azul zafiro y bata del mismo tono, adereza el atuendo con un hermoso anillo con brillantes rodeando una hermosa gema
El Mago nos conduce por una puertecita baja de fierro en la que al abrir hay una pequeña perrita negra terrier escocés, su única compañera, está “tatuada” nos dice, es inglesa y se la regaló su yerno enviándosela desde Europa. El Mago parece contento con la visita aunque se exalta cuando intenta platicarnos algo extraído de lo más hondo de su memoria, “¡tengo que civilizarte niña!”, ya sea con el tema de su largo árbol genealógico o con su carrera como cronista deportivo.
Un hombre culto como pocos, de inteligencia afilada y físico aristócrata, aún a sus años se mantiene erguido, fuerte y lúcido, aunque se lamenta “estas piernas son un problema ves?”, cuando jugaba tenis me servían mucho, gané a los 15 años a nivel nacional por Querétaro un torneo, y luego concursé en una carrera de 400 metros que también gané, pero pus entre puros chaparritos, yo de tres zancadas cruzo este patio niña” dice, mientras permanecemos sentados en una banquita de mosaicos, vieja como vieja es la casa y viejo el patio trasero, con sus árboles frutales que presume haber plantado él mismo: un pequeño limón, un ciruelo japonés, un gran aguacate y un naranjo del que robé el primer fruto, continúa su relato “me cambié el nombre (para esta última carrera) porque en mi familia eso no se hace, es otro nivel niña, mi hermana (Cármen Septién) hace obras de beneficencia que ni te imaginas niña, tiene casas para ancianos y recoge a cada rato más y más, se gasta más de un millón de pesos al mes”.
Frente al escudo de armas de la casa Septién, situado encima de una chimenea aparente y rodeado de algunas pinturas comenta “Septién quiere decir siete cabezas porque matamos (sus antepasados) siete moros durante la ocupación de los moros en España, pero estamos desde las cruzadas”, en el escudo de armas hay un cintillo que dice “éste de aquí mató a siete”, y debajo una luna de plata, un sol con cara y debajo algunas estrellas que flotan sobre una torre de castillo de la que sale un caballero armado con la mano en alto, desde arriba de la torre azoma un brazo que baja intentando detener al caballero “su hermano ¿ves?, lo trata de detener”, y coronando el escudo de armas, una gran corona dorada, reflejo del abolengo familiar.
Primo hermano del cura Hidalgo y de Iturbide, de quienes dice también que son primos hermanos pero que la historia lo ha borrado, así como de algún otro ilustre que regaló el acueducto a la ciudad de Querétaro, y otro más que trajo piedra por piedra la iglesia que descansa dentro de las instalaciones del teatro Helénico.
Es realidad, Pedro Septién Orozco, el Mago, tiene un apellido que se remonta al menos 400 años. --¿“No se aburre aquí solito”?—, “si yo quiero le hablo a mi hermana y ceno en Querétaro, tenemos dos aviones pero eso no se lo ando diciendo a la gente, así que me voy al aeropuerto y llego a la hora que quiera niña, mira, en aquella foto estoy con Slim, estamos atorados con 2 millones de pesos, es que quiere que le haga unas grabaciones de béisbol desde mil novecientos y tantos para acá pero bueno, a ver... y recorriendo con la mirada una estropeada pared a manera de galería continúa:
“En esta foto estoy con el Peje, mira, me quieren hacer un homenaje pero no tengo ganas ya de andar en la calle, a los de Televisa cuando quieren grabarme les digo, vengan aquí, y aquí tienen que hacerlo ves?, dice observando la sala roja en donde habitan dispersos diversos papeles, fotos y recortes de periódicos.
Nos muestra además una revista de Día Siete con Kurt Cobain en la portada y su nombre “El Mago Septién……” por encima del nombre de George W. Bush, lo que le causa mucha gracia, y en interiores tres páginas que le hacen honor. Otra, un suplemento de Clío sobre béisbol en donde le rinden pleitesía y un libro de Heriberto Murrieta cuya introducción nos enseña que escribió y con el que no está de acuerdo en que su foto esté en el medio.
Nos platica que ha Slim le pidió un regalo: una línea privada que no esté intervenida la cual mantiene en un despachito que usa frecuentemente, así lo dice, Fernández de Ceballos quien es su pariente también, y quien mantiene guardados papeles, “¿te imaginas niña lo importantes que deben ser esos papeles para que los guarde aquí?”.
Cuando habla de su casa de Querétaro no puede evitar presumirla, tiene quince salas niña, mira esto, en un recorte de periódico se observa una pareja de novios delante de un enorme tapete colgado, “es un gobelino niña”, mide como diez metros de largo, el gobelino tiene más de 100 puntadas por centímetro cuadrado ¿sabías?, lo tienden en una superficie y con hilos de seda de colores van haciendo las figuras ves?, esto cuesta un dineral niña, mira los muebles, dice mostrando otro recorte en el que se ven otros novios delante de una hermosa chimenea de madera con figuras de oro, “mira los muebles niña pero fíjate bien”.
Habla de las dotes que su familia dio en tiempos pasados, regalaron los terrenos de Jurica y Juriquilla… y su hermana es dueña de los terrenos que usa el Tecnológico de Monterrey en Querétaro, además de ser la dueña de Alpura. Revela que López Mateos le regaló una moneda de oro... y así pasamos la tarde con esa leyenda viva (y bastante aún) el Mago Septién
Les dejo en el título el link de Mark Jenkins. Disfrazó los parquímetros de Washington DC de paletas. Buen proyecto!!!
Vean sus demás proyectos, es el mismo tipo que hace estos maniquíes de plástico tranparente y los sube a árboles, tubos, etc.
Y ya es jueves. Les dije que vayan a ver "El evangelio según Clark"? Está los miercoles en el helénico. Ah, y en los del INBA, atrás del auditorio creo que hay una serie de obras de Ibarguengoitia, que es genial. No se van a aburrir en ninguna de las dos.
La del evangelio es como una reinterpretación del evangelio de JC bajo la óptica de superman.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Es un tunel en NYC, vean los grafittis. Hay algunos muy buenos. Y esta foto es increible, la luz a lo largo del día va cambiando su inclinación.
Hablando de túneles, alguien leyó "El tunel" de Sabato? Librazo.
Ayer vi la nueva película de M.Night Shyamalan, el que hizo el sexto sentido. Su única buena película.
Pues bien, para darle el beneficio de la duda cometí la PENDEJADA de ir a ver la nueva. En español se llama "El fin del mundo" para que no corran riesgos. En inglés "The Happening".
Una de las peores películas de la galaxia. Por favor no pierdan su tiempo. Esto es una advertencia.
Esto si me encantó. El nuevo deporte: Chess Boking!!
A RUSSIAN man has been crowned world champion in the novelty sport of chess boxing, a game that requires equal skill at moving pawns and throwing punches.
En el título está el link.
A ver, ahí les va. Son 12 rounds tradicionales de box, pero entre round y round, en vez de que el corner esté curándoles las heridas y dándoles consejos, se quitan los guantes y se ponen a jugar una partida de ajedréz por cierto tiempo, que continuará acabando el siguiente round.
Me encanta. Supongo que pretende demostrar que no todos los boxeadores son paquidermos y que tienen un poco de coco.
Miren la delcaración del perdedor: "I took a lot of body-blows in the fourth round and that affected my concentration. That's why I made a big mistake in the fifth round: I did not see him coming for my king,'' he said.
Claro, los golpes y el cansancio físico deben hacer su mella.
Ah, y puedes ganar de varias formas. El clásico KO, el jaque mate o la decisión de los jueces.
Bravo por el Chess Boxing.
Y el internet sigue mal, así que no se desesperen, prometo que estoy tratando de postear.
El post secret de ésta semana está muy bueno.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Buenísimo. Link en el título. Facil de hacer y creativo. Les pido disculpas por no postear pero el internet está fallando mucho por mis rumbos. Así que paciencia, que os compensaré.
Nueva recomendación y sorpresa para mi pq pensé que iba a estar malísimo, el nuevo de Nick Hornby (autor enorme, High FIdelity y Fever Pitch, ah, y ABout a Boy) se llama "Slam".
Si no han leído de él empiecen por HIgh Fidelity. Los dejo que me corretean.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Esto está buenísimo. Parece que te comiste un acido. Denle click en el título, una vez que abra, den click en cualquier lado de la página, véanlo por 20 segundos y después vean otra cosa. El efecto es el mismo que el acidul, parece que las cosas estuvieran respirando.