Milonga del Moro Judío (de Jorge Drexler)

These lyrics are something. Here's them in Spanish, and then my attempt at an English translation:

Por cada muro un lamento
en Jerusalén, la dorada,
y mil vidas malgastadas
por cada mandamiento.
Yo soy polvo de tu viento
y aunque sangro de tu herida,
y cada piedra querida
guarda mi amor más profundo,
no hay una piedra en el mundo
que valga lo que una vida.

Yo soy un moro judío
que vive con los cristianos.
No sé que Dios es el mío
ni cuáles son mis hermanos.

No hay muerto que no me duela,
no hay un bando ganador,
no hay nada más que dolor
y otra vida que se vuela.
La guerra es muy mala escuela
no importa el disfraz que viste.
Perdonen que no me aliste
bajo ninguna bandera.
Vale más cualquier quimera
que un trozo de tela triste.

Yo soy un moro judío
que vive con los cristianos.
No sé que Dios es el mío
ni cuáles son mis hermanos.

Y a nadie le di permiso
para matar en mi nombre.
Un hombre no es más que un hombre
y si hay Dios, así lo quiso.
El mismo suelo que piso
seguirá, yo me habré ido;
rumbo también del olvido
no hay doctrina que no vaya,
y no hay pueblo que no se haya
creído el pueblo elegido.

Yo soy un moro judío
que vive con los cristianos.
No sé que Dios es el mío
ni cuáles son mis hermanos.




Milonga of the Muslim Jew

For each wall a lament
in Jerusalem, the golden,
and a thousand wasted lives
for each commandment.
I am dust of your wind
and although I bleed from your wound,
and every dear stone
holds my deepest love,
there is no stone in the world
worth what a life is worth.

I am a Muslim Jew
who lives with Christians.
I don't know who my God is
nor who my brothers are.

There isn't death that won't hurt,
there isn't a winning side,
there is nothing but the pain
and one more life that blows away.
War is a terrible school
no matter what its disguise.
Forgive me if I don't enlist
under any flag.
Any pipe dream is worth more
than a piece of sad fabric.

I am a Muslim Jew
who lives with Christians.
I don't know who my God is
nor who my brothers are.

And I gave nobody permission
to kill in my name.
A man isn't more than a man
and if there's a God, so he wanted it.
The selfsame ground I stand on
will continue; I myself will be long gone.
There is no doctrine that won't share
the same fate,
and there is no people that haven't
believed they were the chosen people.

I am a Muslim Jew
who lives with Christians.
I don't know who my God is
nor who my brothers are.

A Documentary

On the screen, a gay man who has been forced to have a sex-change operation, tells of how he now sells himself in the streets of Tehran, by entering into "trial marriages" sanctioned by the Sharia (all women who for one reason or another can't reproduce may enter into such marriages). One marriage an hour, all legal (is this truly possible? Must research).

In the darkness of a classroom-turned-projection room, by a frozen fjord in Norway, a teenaged Danish girl begins to cry.

Maravillosamente intraducible

Me gusta Sabina. Sus canciones tienen siempre algo de universal y, sin embargo, a veces están tan minuciosamente ancladas en su tiempo, su lengua y su cultura que, más que una traducción, lo que necesitan es una reseña (algo que yo no voy ni a intentar).

Ejemplo en cuestión:

Todos menos tú.


Nietos de toreros disfrazados de ciclistas,
ediles socialistas, putones verbeneros,
peluqueros de esos que se llaman estilistas,
musculitos, posturitas, cronistas carroñeros,
divorciadas calentonas con pelo a lo Madonna,
trotamundos fantasmas, soplones de la pasma,
pintorcillos vanguardistas, genios del diseño,
camellos que te pasan papelinas contra el sueño,
marcadores de paquete en la cola del retrete,
escritores que no escriben, vividores que no viven,
jet de pacotilla, directores que no ruedan,
más chorizos que en Revilla con corbatas de seda.
"Muera la locura, viva el trapicheo."
Tontopollas sin cura, estrategas del magreo,
petardeo de terraza, pasarela, escaparate.
"Archy, Joy, Stella, ¿cómo vais de chocolate?"
Tiburones de la noche con teléfono en el coche y con fax,
caballeros en oferta, señoritas que se quieren casar,
caraduras, obsesos, gualtrapas, lameculos,
azafatas de congreso del brazo de sus chulos,
superman en camiseta, y en la pista dando brincos
la colección de tetas que hacen bulto en telecinco,
mulatonas caribeñas que ponen a la peña de pie,
Blancanieves en trippie, amor descafeinado,
Cenicienta violando al príncipe encantado,
Cicerones de la ruta del mal, mercachifles del vacío total,
especialistas en nada, inventores del tebeo,
Julietas demacradas que no encuentran a Romeo.

Estaban todos menos tú,
todos menos tú.
Y yo marcando el 3-6-9-2-2-30
como un idiota para oirte repetir
en el contestador que te has largado de Madrid.

Y una tribu de repatriados de Ibiza
que dejaron de ser hippies, pero no de ser palizas;
filósofos con caspa, Venus oxidadas,
apóstoles del SIDA, lengua envenenada,
motoristas hitlerianos con guantes en la mano,
guitarristas de loquillo, kubalas de banquillo,
doctores en chorradas, triunfadores con mosca,
yuppies que esta temporada no se comen una rosca,
equilibristas del tedio, un gorila armando gresca en el bar,
vampiros al asedio de sangre fresca para chupar,
paparazzis, reinonas, skins, perdonavidas,
y un notario de Pamplona que viene a la movida.
Muertos que no se suicidan, niñatos, viejos verdes
y un cuñado de una querida del Marqués de Villaverde.
Pinchadiscos que te dejan k.o.
con la cosa del bacalao,
morenazos de balcón y rayos u.v.a.,
futurólogos borrachos como cubas,
un tal Pepe que te puede contar
doce mil de Lepe sin respirar,
naricillas de saldo, tabiques de platino
y un psicólogo argentino mostrándote el camino.

Estaban todos menos tú,
todos menos tú.
Y yo marcando el 3-6-9-2-2-30
sin escuchar lo que me cuentan.
Todos menos tú,
todos menos tú.
Y yo más triste que un pingüino en un garaje,
como un borrón en el paisaje de la multitud
de todos menos tú.

Y yo marcando el 3-6-9-2-2-30
sin escuchar lo que me cuentan.
Todos menos tú.
Y yo con manchas de carmín en la memoria
igual que un perro en el tejado de mi juventud
entre todos menos tú.

Y yo marcando el 3-6-9-2-2-30
pasando de lo que me cuentan.
Todos menos tú.

Amor e sexo (de Rita Lee)

Esta es una canción de Rita Lee, una cantautora brasilera de sesenta y tantos pirulos, que mantiene en sus letras una frescura y una juventud verdaderamente deliciosas:

Amor é um livro,
sexo é esporte.
Sexo é escolha,
amor é sorte...

Amor é pensamento, teorema...
Amor é novela; sexo é cinema.

Sexo é imaginação, fantasia...
Amor é prosa; sexo é poesia...

O amor nos torna patéticos.
Sexo é uma selva de epiléticos...

Amor é cristão, sexo é pagão;
Amor é latifúndio, sexo é invasão.

Amor é divino, sexo é animal...
Amor é bossa nova; sexo é carnaval!

Amor é para sempre;
sexo também.

Sexo é do bom;
amor é do bem...

Amor sem sexo é amizade;
sexo sem amor é vontade...

Amor é um, sexo é dois...
Sexo antes, amor depois...

Sexo vem dos outros e vai embora;
amor vem de nós e demora...

Amor é isso,
sexo é aquilo...
E coisa e tal,
e tal e coisa...

Ai, o amor!
Hmm, o sexo!


Y la traducción:


Amor es un libro,
sexo es deporte.
Sexo es escuela,
amor es suerte...

Amor es pensamiento, teorema...
Amor es novela; sexo es cinema.

Sexo es imaginación, fantasía...
Amor es prosa; sexo es poesía...

El amor nos vuelve patéticos.
Sexo es una selva de epilépticos...

Amor es cristiano, sexo es pagano;
Amor es latifundio, sexo es invasión.

Amor es divino, sexo es animal...
Amor es bossa nova; ¡sexo es carnaval!

Amor es para siempre;
sexo también.

Sexo es algo bueno;
amor es algo bien...

Amor sin sexo es amistad;
sexo sin amor son ganas...

Amor es uno, sexo es dos...
Sexo antes, amor después...

Sexo viene de los otros y se marcha;
amor viene de nosotros, y se queda...

Amor es eso,
sexo es aquello...
Y así y asá,
y asá y así...

¡Ay, el amor!
¡Hmm, el sexo!

Bergen, 1880s

Up in Jølster, at Vassenden, where we spent ski week this year, I found this copy of a painting by some famous Norwegian artist of the 1880s. Someone had put it up on a wall in the reception area of the hotel we were staying at. Does anybody know the name of the painter? I didn't think to write it down.

One of the things I like about this image is how much of the city is still recognizable 130 years later. Next time I travel to Bergen I will try to take a picture from the same perspective (it will have to be from the boat!), to compare more directly.

Orals

Since yesterday at 2:00 p.m. and all of today i have been listening to oral presentations and having short conversations with my twenty two second year Spanish ab initio students. They have been coming to my house to do this, which is part of their evaluation process for the International Baccalaureate program, which i teach.

Fortunately on Thursday it was Danae's birthday, and so yesterday evening she invited me and some other friends to dine with her. Without that little social respite my brain might have exploded by now, leaving eight students without a grade to testify their oral skills in Spanish. (while i type this, student number nine is quietly preparing her presentation in my living room; she might have had to deal with the gore).

Don't get me wrong. I love these kids, and on the whole, they are brilliant students: alive, sincerely curious, struggling to find their way. Some of the conversations turn out very natural and there is even some sincere communication going on. It's just three things that frustrate me:

1) the repetitiveness of it all. They come, choose two images at random from among seventeen, prepare a presentation based on one of them, spill it out; i then ask them some questions, record everything, fill in forms, assign grades to them. Over and over and over, 22 times.

2) the fact that some of them could have done a much better job if they'd worked just a little more consistently in these past 18 months. Some of them are sincerely keen to learn Spanish, yet don't seem to grasp the idea that, in order to truly develop a skill, a certain amount of self-discipline is required.

3) the guilt i feel at my participation in a process that basically amounts to having teenagers jump through hoops, so that they can better fit into an unbalanced society. A society that, rather than teaching young people to discover what they really love and feeding their passion for whatever that may be, simply prepares them to function within predefined roles many of them will spend great chunks of their lives trying to squirm out of.

Yira, yira

Este tango es el más oscuro que conozco. Si existiera la República del Pesimismo, éste sería su himno.


Cuando la suerte qu' es grela,
fayando y fayando
te largue parao;
cuando estés bien en la vía,
sin rumbo, desesperao;
cuando no tengas ni fe,
ni yerba de ayer
secándose al sol;
cuando rajés los tamangos
buscando ese mango
que te haga morfar...
la indiferencia del mundo
-que es sordo y es mudo-
recién sentirás.

Verás que todo el mentira,
verás que nada es amor,
que al mundo nada le importa...
¡Yira!... ¡Yira!...
Aunque te quiebre la vida,
aunque te muerda un dolor,
no esperes nunca una ayuda,
ni una mano, ni un favor.

Cuando estén secas las pilas
de todos los timbres
que vos apretás,
buscando un pecho fraterno
para morir abrazao...
Cuando te dejen tirao
después de cinchar
lo mismo que a mí.
Cuando manyés que a tu lado
se prueban la ropa
que vas a dejar...
Te acordarás de este otario
que un día, cansado,
¡se puso a ladrar!

The Atheist Delusion

Superb!

Murió Picho

Picho murió ayer, viernes 5 de febrero, alrededor de las 11 de la mañana. Estuvo viviendo con nosotros desde octubre de 1993, cuando lo encontré en un montón de escombros con una pierna trasera quebrada. Entonces tendría 1 ó 2 meses.

Nunca supimos cómo se quebró la pierna ni quién lo abandonó, y no importa. No podía contarnos esas cosas, pero no eran esenciales para quererlo.

Murió naturalmente; aparentemente, se le colapsaron los pulmones. Durante la última semana, mis padres habían estado debatiendo si llamar o no a un veterinario para que lo pusieran a dormir, pero siempre que se decidían, Picho mejoraba un poco, y hasta el final, nunca pareció sufrir. Sus últimas dos horas, sin embargo, fueron aparentemente muy difíciles. El veterinario no pudo venir, y Picho murió sin ayuda.

Es difícil decir "creo que fue mejor así", pero soy consciente de que probablemente sería igual de difícil decir lo mismo si la decisión hubiera sido otra.

A quién más le ha dolido todo esto es a mi mamá.

Skuleplikt

Also from the Norwegian class:

I found out tonight that Norway (or rather, the then kingdom of Denmark-Norway) passed a law for compulsory education for all children as early as 1739. There were several nations that had compulsory education programs before then, but none were so thoroughly put into practice, nor as inclusive. The aztecs, for instance, had compulsory education until age 16, but only for males; in Scotland, the Education Act of 1496 obliged the children of noblemen and freeholders to attend school, but this law was impracticable, due to tax problems.

Until these ideas of obligatory school (skuleplikt, in Norwegian) became established, most people in Europe were illiterate. Interestingly, the seed of these changes was the protestant priests' idea that everybody should be capable of reading and understanding first-hand the contents of the Bible. What a contrast with the Catholic church, that stuck to obsolete Latin for the longest time and still insists, even today, that the only authorized interpretation of the Bible is that made by the Church!

Anyway, the Norwegian school system of the 18th century was really interesting, particularly in rural areas. Rather than investing money in building schools, king Christian VI decided to train as teachers those men who, for one reason or another, were not able to join the military service. They would be assigned to a certain locality of the kingdom throughout the school year, and farmers in the area were supposed to set up a rota by which the teacher would be put up in each farm for a certain number of weeks. All boy and girl children in the district, aged 7 to 12, would attend classes at the farm where the teacher was staying, which in effect resulted in a kind of "roaming school" maintained by all.

When it was their turn, it was the obbligation of all host farmers to ensure a) the teacher's room and board; b) that some food was made available to students while at school and c) that the stove was turned on for lessons, so that the air was warm enough for lessons to be held.

I didn't know any of this. Must read more.

RULLE RUNDT (OG RUNDT OG RUNDT)

I den tekniske byen
hvor alle ruller rundt på hjul,
så de kan bli glade fort
og få penger så de kan kjope allt
der kjenner ingen hverandre mer
for de har ikke tid
for de skal rulle rundt på hjul
og kjope morsomme ting
så de kan bli glade fort
så alle barn må passe på seg selv
og alle gamle må legge seg og do
for ingen har tid og ingen vet levende råd,
for det gjelder å glemme det gjelder å bli glade fort
mens lysene blinker rodt og blinker gront
ruller alle rundt på hjul
ruller rundt
og rundt og rundt
og rundt...
og så vidare, og så vidare...

This is a poem by Rolf Jacobsen. We read him today in Norwegian class. Loved him. Here is the English translation:

GOING ROUND AND ROUND (AND ROUND AND ROUND)

In this technological city
where all go round and round in circles
so that they can get happy fast
and get money so they can buy everything
nobody knows each other anymore
for they don't have time
for they must go round and round in circles
and buy amusing things
so that they can get happy fast
and all children must look after themselves
and all the elderly must lie down and die
for nobody has time and nobody knows how
for it is about forgetting it is about getting happy fast
while the lights blink red and blink green
all go round and round in circles
go round and round
and round and round
and round...
and so on, and so forth...

Finalmente, la traducción al español: un poema de Rolf Jacobsen, a quien leímos hoy en la clase de noruego. Me encantó, y me hizo acordar al tango aquel (ya saben al que me refiero):

GIRANDO Y GIRANDO (Y GIRANDO Y GIRANDO)

En esta ciudad técnica
donde todos giran y giran en círculos
para alcanzar rápidamente la felicidad
y obtener dinero para comprarlo todo
ya nadie conoce a nadie
pues no tienen tiempo
pues deben girar y girar en círculos
y comprar cosas divertidas
para alcanzar rápidamente la felicidad
así que todos los niños deben cuidar de sí mismos
y todos los viejos deben echarse a morir
pues nadie tiene tiempo y nadie sabe cómo
pues se trata de olvidar y se trata de alcanzar rápidamente la felicidad
mientras las luces parpadean rojas y parpadean verdes
todos giran y giran en círculos
giran y giran
y giran y giran
y giran...
y así sucesivamente...

Prayers for Bobby

Am reading this book by Leroy Aarons. It's the true chronicle of an ultra-religious mother and her teenaged gay son, who commits suicide in the early 1980s, aged 20. Unable to reconcile her son's death with her view of the world, Mary finally begins to honestly ask questions about homosexuality, and ends up radically changing her beliefs and viewpoints. A bittersweet yet inspirational story of courage, love, pain and redemption.

Aspiraciones apóstatas

Quiero renunciar a la iglesia católica. Sin compromiso, sin medios velos. No quiero ser siquiera una estadística en sus recuentos de bautismos. Los grupos y movimientos políticos enraizados en el catolicismo usan luego esos número para abogar por políticas oscurantistas que causan sufrimiento a millones.

Lamentablemente, con la iglesia católica no es fácil renunciar a la fe. En la época en que se quemaba a las brujas era fácil quedar excomunicado. Bastaba con mandarse alguna herejía tipo "la iglesia es una fuerza negativa en la sociedad" o "La Tierra gira alrededor del sol" para quedar excluído. Más aún, le daban a uno de yapa una buena dosis de tortura y, sin mucho esfuerzo adicional por parte del hereje, se podía incluso llegar a la hoguera también por esta ruta.

Hoy, sin embargo, la iglesia ha perdido esa agilidad en el accionar. Ojo, no es que me queje. Después de todo, quiero ser apóstata, no mártir, pero de cualquier modo me gustaría que cuando digo que no quiero pertenecer más a la iglesia, ésta me tomara tan en serio como se tomaba hace siglos a los herejes.

Pero no, no es así. Para lograr que la iglesia no me considere más como parte de su rebaño, tengo que escribir dos cartas bastantes legalistas: una a la parroquia en la que fui bautizado, y otra a la diócesis a la que pertenece tal parroquia. Debo incluir una copia de mi documento de identidad, alegar que por ser un infante no estaba en posesión de todas mis facultades mentales cuando fui bautizado, señalar la improcedencia de tal rito y, amparándome en mi derecho a la privacidad según la ley argentina, pedir que mis datos personales sean cancelados de las actas parroquiales y diocesanas. Según tengo entendido, lo común es que estas cartas sean ignoradas, luego de lo cual tengo el derecho legal de presentar una denuncia ante la Dirección Nacional de Protección de Datos Personales.

No entiendo cómo puede ser legal bautizar a los niños. ¿Cómo puede obligarse a alguien a pertenecer de por vida a una organización religiosa?

Sí, estoy en contra de la religión organizada, y en contra de la iglesia católica en particular. Se asienta en territorio poco estable.

Hay mucho de admirable en los teólogos de la liberación, por ejemplo, o en aquel sacerdote que, sin suscribir a ninguna corriente eclesiástica en particular, va y se inserta en la vida de su comunidad, y se preocupa por su bienestar en ESTE mundo. Conozco muchos así, y los admiro. Conozco en persona un par así, y el modo en que le dan poder a la gente sobre sus propias vidas es algo que no he visto en muchas otras personas.

La iglesia, sin embargo, dice que ésta gente está obrando mal, preocupándose por el bienestar social de sus feligreses. Cuando se trata de un conflicto entre opresores y oprimidos la iglesia se ve a sí misma, en el mejor de los casos, como una especie de Cruz Roja que no debe tomar parte: asiste a los oprimidos (sobre todo inculcándoles que lo verdaderamente importante es el reino de los cielos, no el aquí y el ahora), pero dice amar a todos por igual.

Pero la iglesia no es la Cruz Roja. Lo dicho: grupos políticos con base en la iglesia, e incluso la iglesia misma, se inmiscuyen una y otra vez en la política, haciendo presión sobre los políticos y pasando bulas o dictámenes en los que se les pide a los fieles que no apoyen tal o cual proyecto de ley. ¿No es esto acaso intervenir entre opresores y oprimidos?

Obviamente, la iglesia se justifica alegando que sólo interfiere en aquellos temas políticos y sociales que tienen un peso considerable sobre la salud de las almas de los ciudadanos. Alma y cuerpo: una invisible y el otro palpable, y sin embargo se le da más importancia a la una que al otro. ¿Cómo es posible?

Luego, ¿qué es amor, para la iglesia?

Yo puedo amar a un asesino. De verdad. Con algo de perspectiva puedo amarlo por las circunstancias que lo llevaron a hacer lo que hizo. Puedo compadecerlo, intentar ayudarlo. Puede importarme su bienestar. Pero igualmente, voy a protegerme a mí y a todos los que pueda de su accionar.

Sí, ya sé que Jesús no hizo esto. Él puso la otra mejilla. ¿Pero no siempre, o sí? ¿Acaso no destruyó el mercado de los usureros, dándoles vueltas las mesas y desparramando sus mercancías? ¿Acaso no es eso violencia?

Yo no apoyo esa violencia de Jesús. No apoyo la de Camilo Torres Restrepo, tampoco. No sé si a la hora de la verdad podría hacerlo, pero de verdad creo que hay que poner la otra mejilla. Creo en el amor del pacifismo, aunque he tratado de ponerlo en práctica y no hay caso, me cuesta. Muchas veces fallo.

Pero pacifista o no, creo que hay que decir las cosas como uno las ve...

Hmmm... Que es exactamente lo que la iglesia hace, supongo. Hoy en día no tienen un ejército ni nada por el estilo: simplemente hacen campaña, apoyando los puntos de vista que ellos piensan que son correctos.

En este sentido, imagino que son iguales a cualquier otro movimiento político... Excepto que no me viene en mente ningún movimiento político moderno que trate de apoyar sus puntos de vista en los designios divinos. Eso es hacer trampa.

Igualmente, tampoco hay ningún grupo político que proclame tener el derecho legal de adoctrinar a los niños... y se salga con la suya.

Prayers for Bobby

I read this book by Leroy Aarons and I cry. There's so much that rings so close.

"Why Do Some People Never Get Depressed?"

I was reading an article with that title on the BBC website today. There's basically these doctors in Manchester who are doing a study to pin down the factors that allow some people to overcome the most incredible hardships without falling into depression, something that in medical terms is known as "resilience". In contrast, there are 121 million people in the world today that, trauma or not, are suffering from depression. It seems most everyone else is somewhere on a continuum between these two extremes.

Basically, the doctors want to see how much resilience is determined by innate characteristics of our brains and how much by our experiences or education.

The part i found most interesting about the article was a quote by a certain Aeron, one of the subjects of the study. He is a middle aged guy (quite handsome, judging from his pic!) who lost his business, his income and his home not too long ago. This is what he said:

"I'm generally a happy person. Everybody has stressful moments but there would be something wrong with you if you were happy all the time. But I haven't ever had an episode of depression.

In my childhood, when I first realised I was gay, I didn't come out to my parents or friends, not until I was much older. I think, perhaps, it resulted in me building up a strong defence mechanism and helped me deal with situations better later on in life.

I think that if there's a problem there's always a remedy. It's not that I don't think about stressful issues in my life, but I always think you can find a solution."

And there, RESONANCE! I can totally get what Aeron means.

In these last 20 years or so, i have always felt i have this kind of impenetrable shield with me, this sense that since i was able to overcome all the angst of growing up gay in a homophobic environment and with a homophobic education, there is now no situation that could ever make me loose the will to live.

It's not a sense of invincibility, or of self-confidence, even. Guh knows how insecure i can still feel, and i am also quite aware of all the uncertainties and downright hideousnesses that surround us. It's just that i already met the blackest thoughts, at a very young age. We lived together for a few years, but then we divorced. Not amicably. So we won't be seeing each other again.

Perhaps that is one way of resilience, then, for later life: to have suffered young, and to have survived.

On the other hand, i do worry sometimes. Resilience may have many flavors. One might be strength, but another might be callousness. One might be perseverance, but others might be pessimism, fear, closedness, emotional detachment. An unwillingness to take risks.

I am very unwilling to take risks at the romantic level. I don't want to get hurt. I am comfortable.

Picho

Picho tiene algo más de 16 años. Lo encontré en noviembre de 1993 en un montón de escombros, con una pata quebrada. Lo enyesó una veterinaria coja y quince días después, cuando recién le habían quitado el yeso, se enfermó de parvo virus. Casi se desangra, pero sobrevivió.

Le encantaba que lo lleváramos al parque. Una vez atrapó un pájaro al vuelo. Le gritamos "Picho!", abrió la boca, y el pájaro salió, volando aún. Otra vez, de vuelta de Luján, nos detuvimos en la ruta a tomar mates a la sombra de un algarrobo, y Picho desapareció. Oímos ladridos y balidos desesperados, y lo encontramos con el cuello de una cabra en la boca. Otra vez: "Picho!", y allí salió la cabra, despavorida pero ilesa.

Una vez estuvo en una pelea con otro perro, y volvió a casa chorreando sangre...

Cuando íbamos a nadar al dique, bastaba chapotear un poco en el agua y pretender que uno se hundía, para que él se lanzara y tratara de rescatarnos... Entonces había que cuidarse de sus bien intencionados tarascones.

El amor de Picho es mi madre. Hoy está sordo y casi totalmente ciego. Ha perdido el olfato, le cuesta ponerse de pie, y a veces es incontinente. Sin embargo aún come y bebe, y cuando puede sigue a mi madre a todos lados dentro de la casa.

Consuelo

Aún faltan poco más de cuatro meses para su nacimiento, pero mi sobrina ya tiene el nombre casi totalmente asentado en la mente de sus padres y de todos nosotros, que también la amaremos: se llamará Consuelo.

La vigésima segunda edición del diccionario de la Real Academia Española registra tres significados para la palabra consuelo:

1) Descanso y alivio de la pena, molestia o fatiga que aflige y oprime el ánimo.

2) Gozo, alegría.

3) Misericordia.

La verdad es que al principio el nombre no me gustaba mucho: me había atascado en el primer significado y lo interpretaba, además, de forma demasiado estrecha. ¿Dónde estaba el sufrimiento del que vendría a aliviarnos esta niña? Me parecía que el nombre implicaba una cierta visión fatalista de la vida, como si ésta fuera un valle de lágrimas que ella tuviera que ayudarnos a soportar, cuando lo que yo sueño es que disfrute y aprecie la delicia de existir y ser consciente, que se maraville ante la concatenación de circunstancias que nos han permitido existir, que sea el universo viéndose a sí mismo.

Pero bueno, para eso, he allí los significados 2) y 3): el gozo y la alegría de vivir, y la misericordia, que es la comprensión y el perdón de las debilidades de los demás y las propias. Sólo podemos perdonar si somos capaces de apreciar y amar nuestra falibilidad y la ajena, viendo en ellas una expresión de la belleza única que es cada uno.

Finalmente, incluso el significado 1) ha venido a abrírseme: este nombre puede ser un regalo para mi sobrina, el deseo expreso de que Consuelo sea siempre capaz de encontrar descanso y alivio de sus penas, porque seguramente las tendrá también. Las superará compartiéndolas y tomando parte de las de los demás, con fortitud, y su vida será llena. Así, sin esfuerzo, dando y recibiendo, se convertirá también en consuelo para la gente a su alrededor.

La verdad es que ahora no se me ocurre nombre más feliz.

Two Arrivals

I can't sleep tonight. I don't even want to. I probably will, a few hours, later, but now I'm fully awake, vibrating at life's richness and generosity. It is amazing and surprising how so much can happen.

Yesterday, January 20th at 22:05 p.m., I found out that, less than 6 months from now, I'll be the uncle of a little girl. I swear to do everything in my power to make her life as rich and interesting and fulfilling as possible. I would like her to find many questions to ask, to have no fear in pursuing the answers, to live with her face in the wind, loving and loved, in freedom, caring about others and understanding that their well-being and her own are connected.

And today, about 20 hours from now, I will be holding in my arms the man I love. I swear to do everything in my power to make his life as rich and interesting and fulfilling as possible. I would like him and me to find many questions to ask together and on our own, to have no fear in pursuing our answers and sharing them with each other, to live with our faces in the wind, loving and loved and in freedom, caring about the world that surrounds us and understanding that our well-being is connected to its health.

You Gotta Give Them Hope

We don't see ourselves

Irony of ironies.

The most resentful person I know includes, at the bottom of all his e-mails, the following caption:

"Break the rules, smile always, forgive quickly, kiss slowly and laugh without control."

This goes to prove that we don't indeed see ourselves clearly, much of the time. I wonder what my inconsistencies are. Perhaps the same as his? If I forgave quickly, this defect of his might not be so present in my mind.

To verdener

Tonight I watched a great movie: To verdener ("Worlds Apart", in English), a Danish production directed by Niels Arden Oplev. The movie is based on the true story of Sara, a 17 year old Jehova's Witness who is expelled from her community, because she begins a relationship with a non-believer. In fact, this means that her father and siblings decide not to talk to her any longer.

Sara's journey takes her, of course, to question and finally discard her faith in Jehova.

My favorite part of the movie is the final dialogue between Sara and her father. Some time after being cast out, she shows up to attend the funeral service of a friend, after which her father calls her selfish, for imposing her presence upon them all. Sara replies:

- Do you love me, dad?

- Of course! How can you even ask me that?

- But who do you love more, me or God?

- God.

- Why?

- Because he made me. Because he will grant me eternal life.

- Well, I think that is selfish, dad.

In essence, what this man says is that he loves god more because god has given and can give him all this stuff. He is thinking of his own self-interest and implying that the love you give is directly proportional to how much you get from someone.

I do not know how faithful a portrayal of Jehova's Witnesses this movie is, but it certainly made me think... the little amount I'm able to, lately.

Cats and the weather

A couple of years ago, when i moved into this house, i asked Victor to replace one of the window panes in my bathroom by a wooden plank on which he then proceeded to fit my cat's trapdoor.

Since then, Mooshee comes in and out of the house in all weathers. When it's raining a lot or she's wet from slithering around in the damp underbrush, she comes in soaking wet and then spends a long time licking the water off her fur... Which I suppose, in cat terms, is the equivalent of taking a shower, putting on deodorant and having a cup of herbal tea all in one go. I can particularly tell when she has spent some time in the foliage, because she smells sweet and fragrant in a way I associate with the countryside, here.

If I get too close she stops her licking and throws me a "oh, you really want to bother me now, do you?" kind of glance. She holds my eyes for a couple of seconds and then is again absorbed by the water in her coat.

Well, not quite literally. What a sight that would be.

La gioia

Questi versi mi son piaciuti tantissimo, Andrea:

Abbiamo spinto la gioia così lontana
che non troverà mai più la strada di casa

Rococó cubed

Edgar suggested a novel to me. I ordered, received it and, while having lunch today, read its first page. And re-read it. And read it again. My guffaws made cheese fly up my nose:

In strewn banners that lay like streamers from a longago parade the sun's fading seraphim rays gleamed onto the hood of the old Ford and ribboned the steel with the meek orange of a June tomato straining at the vine. From the back seat, door open, her nimble fingers moved along the guitar like a weaver's on a loom. Stitching a song. The cloth she made was a cry of aching American chords, dreamlike warbles built to travel miles of lonesome road. They faded into the twilight, and Silas leaned back on the asphalt, as if to watch them drift into the Arkansas mist.
Away from them, across the field of low-cut durum wheat, they saw Evangeline's frame, outlined pale in shadow against the highway sky, as it trembled.
That's the way it is with song, isn't it? she said. The way it quivers in your heart. Quivers like the wing of a little bird.
In a story too. He spoke it softly in a voice that let her hear how close they were. That's the way it is with a story. Turns your heart into a bird.

Oh, I know I'm gonna love it!

Floating Gushing Fruit

This sculpture belongs to some anonymous art student at Macalester College. I did look for the name of the artist, but s/he must have been in the process of setting up the exhibition of which this piece was part. Thus, when i passed by, the customary little sign with all the customary info was missing, and i thought it awkward to go in and ask.

We see some kind of dessicated seed pod that has popped, releasing a thick and very orange goo that serves as the spindly stand on which this strange fruit rests. The splatter of goo on the floor is cartoonish and realistic at the same time.

I love the playfulness of this piece. It makes me think of all kind of reversions. We are used to fruits hanging from trees, but this might be a freeze-frame of an entirely different process: perhaps the pod was on the ground, it split, and it released the pressurized jet of juice that has launched it into the air.

Or perhaps what looks like juice is stalks, and the pod is the strange looking bud of an exotic plant.

It makes me want to lick it, to kneel down and stick my tongue in to taste it.

I have met someone. Someone that interests me.

Eight words. Seven, in reality, because someone is repeated. He's important, so it put him in twice, like this.

Then we have I and me, which embody an individualism of perspective made inescapable by language. Some say I is an evolutionary feature of our species, and others claim I can be transcended. I know pathological Is, heavy with overfeeding. Is that have to squint in order to be able to see themselves in the mirror. I am a bit afraid of my I, yet here it is, twice: the familiar I and then me, which is basically a regular I stranded in the predicate, and thus have to make a living in different surrounding. so we are down to six words, now.

Waves

The moon keeps my sleeplessness
company
but in everything else
they are unlikely friends.
The moon never dwells too long upon a well,
fleetingly crossing its mirrored surface
as if on skates.
But my sleeplessness falls down
sinks in with the rotund plunk of a stone
and makes waves.

Inconsistencies

I went for a walk in Valencia today, mind all tangled in this and that and in someone i've met... Or rather, am starting to meet. Then at El Corte Inglés i came accross this poster:



Of course, we're surrounded by publicity all the time, but there's something about famous faces that draws our eyes, right in. I suppose this is why actors and actresses are in such demand when it comes to selling stuff. In fact, before i got back home i came across these other two:





Now, i love Gwyneth Paltrow and Jude Law; great actors both of them, particularly Paltrow. George Clooney's less inspiring, but of course, he's got his charm, too.

Yet we all KNOW that Paltrow must put on make up and cosmetics that have nothing to do with Estée Lauder, and no matter what the add says, i'd still be willing to bet that Clooney drinks much else, and not only Nespresso, even where coffee is concerned. As for Law, even if he is the representative of Dunhill in the whole of Asia, i bet he is partial to other clothing, too.

So what is the mechanism behind this kind of publicity?

Yes, the known and pretty faces attract our attention. Then we notice the product being endorsed and tie the two together. What are the possible thoughts later, when faced with the product again?

"This is the coffee that Clooney drinks"
"Must be good if he drinks it"
"I'll be a little like him if i do, too"

I guess these thoughts, if we have them at all, go mostly unregistered by our conscious attention, like so much automatic crap we think throughout the day. Same goes for the analogous thoughts corresponding to Law's and Paltrow's products of choice.

Or maybe we don't even need these thoughts at all, maybe it's simply the association that does it.

Dio é morto (di Francesco Guccini)

Ho visto
la gente della mia età andare via
lungo le strade che non portano mai a niente,
cercare il sogno che conduce alla pazzia
nella ricerca di qualcosa che non trovano
nel mondo che hanno già,
lungo alle notti che dal vino son bagnate,
dentro alle stanze da pastiglie trasformate,
lungo alle nuvole di fumo del mondo fatto di città,
essere contro ad ingoiare la nostra stanca civiltà...
E un Dio che è morto
ai bordi delle strade.
Dio è morto,
nelle auto prese a rate.
Dio è morto,
nei miti dell' estate.
Dio è morto...

Mi han detto
che questa mia generazione ormai non crede
in ciò che spesso han mascherato con la fede,
nei miti eterni della patria o dell' eroe
perchè è venuto ormai il momento di negare
tutto ciò che è falsità, le fedi fatte di abitudine e paura,
una politica che è solo far carriera,
il perbenismo interessato, la dignità fatta di vuoto,
l' ipocrisia di chi sta sempre con la ragione e mai col torto...
E un Dio che è morto,
nei campi di sterminio.
Dio è morto,
coi miti della razza.
Dio è morto
con gli odi di partito.
Dio è morto...

Ma penso
che questa mia generazione è preparata
a un mondo nuovo e a una speranza appena nata,
ad un futuro che ha già in mano,
a una rivolta senza armi,
perchè noi tutti ormai sappiamo
che se Dio muore è per tre giorni e poi risorge,
in ciò che noi crediamo.
Dio è risorto,
in ciò che noi vogliamo.
Dio è risorto,
nel mondo che faremo.
Dio è risorto...

Sueño excesivo

Yo sé lo que es tener excesivo sueño. No querer despertar por las mañanas y extrañar la cama. Ver al día como intervalo entre almohada y almohada. Pasar los meses y los años añorando una situación que no sea la presente, y al mismo tiempo temerosos de abandonarla, porque esto es lo que hay, lo mejor que nos permitimos imaginar, y el sueño es nuestra vacación diaria.

Cuatro por tres

ve tu sed sal del mal da la paz

ve tu mal sé tu sed da la sal

sé tu sal da tu paz ve la sed

sal de ti da tu tú ve y sé

Lo oscuro

Echado en lo oscuro
de vida desnudo
detrás de un gran muro
corazón en nudo
en el vacío puro
la nada me pudo.

Dos cosas que enseñar a los niños

Preguntar siempre "por qué", y sinceridad con uno mismo en la búsqueda de las respuestas.

Al vent

Raimon is an amazing Spanish musician who sings in the catalan language. His lyrics are inspirational. Here is one of them:

Al vent,
la cara al vent,
el cor al vent,
les mans al vent,
els ulls al vent,
al vent del món.

I tots,
tots plens de nit,
buscant la llum,
buscant la pau,
buscant a déu,
al vent del món.

La vida ens dóna penes,
ja el nàixer és un gran plor:
la vida pot ser eixe plor;
però nosaltres al vent,
la cara al vent,
el cor al vent,
les mans al vent,
els ulls al vent,
al vent del món.

I tots,
tots plens de nit,
buscant la llum,
buscant la pau,
buscant a déu,
al vent del món.

And here is the English translation:

In the wind,
our faces in the wind,
our hearts in the wind,
our hands in the wind,
our eyes in the wind,
in the wind of the world.

And we all,
all full of night,
we look for light,
we look for peace,
we look for god,
in the wind of the world.

Life gives us sorrows,
even being born is cause for weeping:
life may indeed be that weeping;
yet we are in the wind,
our faces in the wind,
our hearts in the wind,
our hands in the wind,
our eyes in the wind,
in the wind of the world.

And we all,
all full of night,
we look for light,
we look for peace,
we look for god,
in the wind of the world.

Diario

de Juan José Millás

Seríamos unas veinticinco aves con cabeza de mujer (ya adelanto que se trataba de un sueño) y volábamos en una formación que imitaba la punta de una flecha, cuyo extremo era ocupado sucesivamente por cada uno de los miembros de la formación. El relevo se producía de manera mecánica, como si el grupo estuviera dotado de un reloj interno. Desde la altura a la que volábamos se veían unos acantilados algo siniestros, cuyos bordes parecían labios. Un poco más allá había un desierto salpicado por formaciones verdes, muy distantes entre sí, en las que pastaban animales. Al tener los ojos delante de la cara y no a los lados, como los verdaderos pájaros, nos veíamos obligadas a girar el cuello a izquierda o derecha para comprender nuestra situación en el espacio.

Yo sabía que no pertenecía a ese mundo avícola, pero intuí que me convenía disimular para no ser descubierta. Ignoraba, en cambio, si pese a ser pájaros hablábamos (puesto que teníamos bocas) o piábamos (pese a no tener pico). En esto, la bandada empezó a descender en círculos sobre un camello muerto y percibí un olor a descomposición que removió algo dentro de mi estómago. Intuí que era una manifestación del hambre, pero una vez que llegamos a tierra no empecé a comer hasta que otras aves más viejas que yo abrieron la panza del animal y le sacaron las vísceras. Actuábamos de acuerdo con unas pautas inexplicables, pero muy eficaces, pues todo el mundo comió algo, aunque en turnos diferentes.

Cuando hubimos saciado el hambre, una de aquellas aves dijo: "Nos vamos". Comprendí entonces que se podía hablar sin resultar sospechosa y abrí la boca para decir algo, pero me salió un garlido que hizo que todos los ojos me miraran con aprensión. Entonces me desperté, y me arreglé. En la oficina, advertí que el jefe tenía cara de camello y me sorprendió no haberme dado cuenta hasta ese día. Me sentí extraña entre los seres humanos como antes entre los pájaros, pero no dije nada, pues no sabía si allí se hablaba o se ladraba. Al poco, el jefe se puso a piar y yo coloqué los labios en forma de u para hacer lo mismo, pero me salió una palabra. Me miraron con odio y volví a despertarme, etcétera.

Diary

by Juan José Millás

We must have been some twenty five birds with woman heads (I am telling you right now, this was a dream) and we were flying in an arrow-point formation, the leading post being successively occupied by each of the members of the formation. The replacement happened mechanically, as if the group counted with an internal clock. From the height at which we flew it was possible to make out some sinister-looking cliffs, the edges of which looked like lips. A little further off there was a desert dotted by green blots very distant from each other, populated by grazing animals. Since our eyes were at the front of our faces and not on the sides, like in true birds, we had to turn our neck left and right in order to understand our situation in space.

I knew that I did not belong in that aerial world, but I sensed it was in my interest to pretend, lest I be discovered. Still I ignored whether, in spite of being birds, we spoke (since we had mouths) or tweeted (although we had no beaks). Suddenly the flock began to descend in circles towards a dead camel and I perceived a smell of decay that stirred something in my stomach. I sensed this was a manifestation of hunger, but once we arrived in the ground I did not start eating until other, older birds, opened the animal's belly and brought out its entrails. We acted according to unexplainable norms that were, nevertheless, very efficient, since we all got to eat something, although in different order.

When we had satisfied our hunger one of the birds said "We are leaving". Then I understood that it was possible to speak without seeming suspicious, so I opened my mouth to say something, but out came a squawk that turned all eyes, apprehensive, towards me. Then I woke up, and smartened up. At the office I noticed that my boss had a camel's face and it surprised me that I had not realized it till then. I felt strange among humans as I had before among birds, but I did not say anything, as I ignored whether we spoke there, or barked. After a while the boss started twittering, and I puckered my lips to do the same, but out came a word. They all looked at me with hatred and then I woke up again, etc..

Otro poema de Olav H. Hauge

Eg siktar litt yver

Ei pil som skal råka, kan ikkje gjera
mange krokar. Men ein god skyttar
reknar med fråstanden og vinden.
So når eg siktar på deg, siktar eg litt yver.


I Aim a Little Higher

For an arrow to strike, it can't make
much of an arc. Still, a good hunter
allows for wind and distance.
So when I aim at you, I aim a little higher.


Apunto un poco más arriba

Para que una flecha dé en el blanco, no puede recorrer
demasiado arco. Sin embargo, un buen arquero
toma en cuenta la distancia y el viento.
Así que cuando te apunto a ti, apunto un poco más arriba.

si el norte fuera el sur

acabo de escuchar
si el norte fuera el sur
y estoy
de acuerdo
con arjona
en parte
seríamos igual
no creo que peor
sólo igual
pero eso basta
para hacernos bajar los brazos
y decir
qué especie de
mierda
somos

o no.

prefiero creer
que romper este espejo
es necesario
para
desbancar el mito
de nosotros y ellos
de nosotros contra ellos

necesario
para ver que la identidad
separada
era sólo un
reflejo

para encontrar
la unidad
que nos permita
a todos
crear juntos un futuro
mejor

la determinación
de trabajar
juntos
para cambiar
y crecer
todos
juntos

The Secret Life of Bees

One of the characters has been beaten up by racist men. Afterwards a friend calls her hard-headed, and recriminates her for having put herself in a position where she could have been killed, when a simple apology could have spared her.

The beaten woman replies:

"I know you can't understand. Apologizing to those men would just have been a different way of dieing. Except I would have had to live with it."

A part of me loves her reply. There are ideas worth dieing for, that part tells me. Another part is distrustful, and wonders all kind of things, like "what about strategy?" and "what part of her would really have died if she had apologized" and "when she says 'I', what does she mean?"

These two parts make a whole, I think. The first one alone can be too easily manipulated; the second one, if left by itself, might turn selfish and calculating.

Michael Moore: ¡Felicitaciones por el Premio Nobel de la Paz, presidente Obama! Ahora gáneselo, por favor.

De Michael Moore, AlterNet
Publicado el 9 de octubre de 2009
http://www.alternet.org/story/143192/
Traducido por Mariano Giampietri


Estimado presidente Obama,

Qué maravilla que hoy se le haya dado reconocimiento por ser un hombre de paz. Sus declaraciones cristalinas y absolutas – que va a cerrar Guantánamo, que va a sacar a nuestras tropas de Irak, que quiere un mundo libre de armas nucleares, que le haya admitido a los iraníes que en 1953 fuimos responsables del derrocamiento del presidente que habían elegido democráticamente, su gran discurso al mundo musulmán en El Cairo, que haya eliminado el inutilísimo término “La Guerra contra el Terror”, que le haya puesto fin a la tortura… Todas estas cosas nos han hecho sentir, a nosotros y al resto del mundo, un poco más seguros, sobre todo en vista del desastre de los últimos ocho años. En ocho meses ha realizado usted un giro de 180 grados y ha llevado a este país en una dirección mucho más cuerda.

Pero…

A nadie se le pasa por alto la ironía de que este premio le haya sido otorgado el segundo día de nuestro noveno año de guerra en Afganistán. En este momento se encuentra usted frente a una encrucijada. Puede tomar el rumbo que le sugieren los generales y expandir la guerra (que resultará en una derrota ya demasiado predecible) o puede declarar el final a Las Guerras de Bush, y traer a casa a todas nuestras tropas. Ahora. Eso es lo que haría un verdadero hombre de paz.

No hay nada de malo en hacer lo que el otro tipo no pudo: capturar al hombre u hombres responsables del homicidio en masa de 3000 personas del 9 de septiembre del 2001. PERO ESO NO ES ALGO QUE PUEDA USTED HACER CON TANQUES Y TROPAS. Busca a un hombre, no a un ejército. Para deshacerse de un ratón no se necesita un cartucho de dinamita.

En cuanto al Talibán, eso ya es otra cosa. Ése es un problema que debe resolver la gente de Afganistán, tal como lo hicimos nosotros en 1776, los franceses en 1789, los cubanos en 1959, los nicaragüenses en 1979 y la gente de Berlín Oriental en 1989. Una cosa segura en todas las revoluciones de gente que quiere ser libre es que, en última instancia, son ellos mismos quienes deben conseguir tal libertad. Puede que alguien les brinde apoyo, pero la libertad definitivamente no se entrega, y menos desde el asiento de conductor de un vehículo militar que ni siquiera es el propio.

Tiene usted que ponerle fin a nuestras actividades en Afganistán ahora mismo. Si no lo hace, en Oslo no tendrá otra opción sino devolver el premio.

Sinceramente,
Michael Moore
MMFlint@aol.com
MichaelMoore.com

P.D.: Su oposición se ha pasado la mañana atacándolo por haber traído tanta buena voluntad a este país. ¿Por qué odian tanto a los Estados Unidos? Tengo el presentimiento de que, si encontrara usted hoy mismo la cura para el cáncer, lo denunciarían por destruir la libre empresa, ya que los centros médicos que se ocupan del cáncer tendrían que cerrar. Luego hay quienes dicen que no ha hecho usted nada para merecer este premio… En lo que a mí concierne, el sólo hecho de haber decidido meterse en ese campo minado de odio e intentar deshacer el daño irreparable perpetrado por el presidente anterior, es algo que aprecio, junto a millones de otras personas. Es, además, un acto de verdadera valentía. Por eso le dieron el premio. En este momento todo el mundo está pendiente de los EEUU –de usted– para que salve al planeta. Literalmente. No los desilusionemos. 


Hvem kan segla for utan vind

Un poema sueco. No sé ni quién es el autor, ni cuándo se escribió, pero me encanta:

Hvem kan segla for utan vind?

Hvem kan ro utan årar?

Hvem kan skiljas frå venen sin utan at fella tårar?

Jag kan segla for utan vind,
och jag kan ro utan årar,
men jag kan inte skiljas frå venen min utan at fella tårar.

Who can sail without wind?
Who can row without oars?
Who can part from one's friend without shedding tears?

I can sail without wind,
and I can row without oars,
but I cannot part from my friend without shedding tears.

The Ordinary of Newgate's Account of the Behaviour, Confession, and Last Speech of George Skelthorpe, executed at Tyburn on March 23rd, 1709

At the Sessions held at Justice-Hall in the Old- Baily, on Wednesday the 2d, and Thursday the 3d, and then adjourn'd to Thursday the 10th day of March 1708-9, Seven Persons being found Guilty of Death, received Sentence accordingly. Of these 7, One only is order'd for Execution, and the other Six have obtain'd a gracious Reprieve; which I hope they will take care to improve into further Mercy.

As soon as they were cast for their Lives [i.e formally sentenced to be hanged], I constantly attended them every day: And upon each of the following Solemn Days, viz.

1. Sunday the 6th.
2. Tuesday, the Anniversary of Her Majesty's Accession to the Throne, being the 8th. of this instant March,
3. Ashwednesday the 9th.
4. Sunday the 13th.
5. Sunday the 20th.

I preach'd to them and others then present, both in the Morning and Afternoons, upon these several Texts.

1. Upon Job 14.14. If a man die, shall he live again? All the days of my appointed time will I wait till my change come.
2. Upon Psal. 40.16. Let all those that seek Thee, rejoice and be glad in Thee: Let such as love Thy Salvation, say continually, The Lord be magnify'd.
3. Upon Isai. 55, 6 & 7. Seek ye the Lord while He may be found. Call ye upon Him while He is near. Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts, and let him return unto the Lord, and He will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon.
4. Upon Luke 24.46 & 47. (Part of the 2d Morning-Lesson). And (Jesus) said unto them, Thus it is written, and this it beloved Christ to suffer, and to rise from the Dead the third Day: And that Repentance and Remission of Sins should be preached in his Name amongst all Nations, beginning at Jerusalem.
5. Upon Prov. 28.13. He that covers his Sins shall not prosper: But whoso confesses and forsakes them, shall have Mercy.

I shall not here (as I usually do in the like Cases) set down the Heads of those Sermons: That would make this Paper of a larger Extent than I intend it. This only I shall observe, That I concluded every one of those ten Set Discourses with such an Extempore Exhortation and Application, as I thought most suitable to the Condemned; whom I visited and pray'd with in the Chapel twice every day, and had sometimes under private Examination. And then it was that I received from George Skelthorp his Confession, as hereafter follows.

This George Skelthorp, the only Person that is now to suffer, was try'd upon two Indictments, and found guilty of both. The first was for assaulting William Hills, upon the QUEEN's High-way (that is in the Streets from the Strand through the New Buildings to Covent-garden) and taking from him 4s. 6d. on the 18th of February last. The other Indictment was for his assaulting James Booker on the 27th of the said Month of February, and taking from him a Gold-Ring, a Muslin Neck-Cloth, and 10s. in Money, in or about the same place, where he had committed the former Robbery. The Account that he gave me, First, of himself; and then of what has a relation to those Facts of which he was accus'd, and for which he was condemn'd, was this:

First, As to himself; He said, he was about 25 years of age, born at St. Edmunds Bury, in the County of Suffolk; That he had been for a time a Domestick Servant in the Families of some Gentlemen, both in the Country and here in Town, and for above these Seven years last past, in the QUEEN's Service, first in Ireland, in the Regiment of Colonel Granfield, in Captain North's Company; and then in Flenders in the same Regiment, and afterwards here in HER MAJESTY's First Regiment of Foot-Guards, in Brigadier Totton's Company: That as he had not had much Education in Matters of Religion, and knew very little of that which is a great Help thereto (viz. Reading) but what he had of himself pickt up of late; so he was easily induced to a Loose Life of Drinking, Whoring, and Breaking the Sabbath-day, and totally neglecting the Service of God. All which heinous and crying Sins were now very grievous to him, and lay very heavy upon his Conscience.

Secondly, As to what concern'd the Facts for which he was to die; he deny'd his being guilty of them, or of any Crime that should have brought him before any Justice; but this only, That he knowing the time when, and the places where some Sodomites were resorting about Covent-Garden, he went to stand in their Way, and when any of them would (as they often did) carry him to a By-place thereabouts to commit their foul Acts with him, he went with them; and then he taking hold of them, threaten'd them, that he would presently bring them before a Justice, unles they gave him Satisfaction. By which means (he said) he got a great deal of Money at several times, of such Persons; who rather than suffer themselves to be exposed (some of them being Men of good appearance) gave him either Money, Rings, or Watches, or what else they had then about them. Which he would fain perswade me was the only thing that had brought this Prosecution upon him; acknowledging at the same time, that it was just with God thus to punish him, for having concealed and conniv'd at those foul Acts, which he easily might have discover'd and brought to Justice, as he ought to have done. But the Love of filthy Lucre had kept him from it; though it had not as yet (but he could not tell whether if he had gone on in that Trade, it would not at last have) brought him to yield to their lewd and foul Practices. This is the Substance of what he said; adding only as to this Matter, That there was a certain publick House about Covent-Garden, where he knew those Sodomites us'd frequently to meet, and had seen some of them there several times, And it now repented him, that he had not made a Discovery of them, as he often had fair opportunities for it.

He seem'd all along, from the time of his Trial to that of his Death, to be very willing both to learn and practice those Religious Duties, which (by his own Confession) he had too much neglected before. He desired both my Instructions and Prayers, which he had, and I hope were not bestow'd in vain. But God knows the Heart of Man. He was very attentive to the Word of God, when read and expounded to him; and I could not observe any thing in his Behaviour, but what was becoming a Man under his sad Circumstances. He pray'd very earnestly to God for the Pardon of his Sins; and declar'd, that he forgave all his Enemies, and dy'd in Charity with all Men.

When he was carry'd this Day from Newgate in a Cart to the Place of Execution, I met him there, and discharged, for the last time, my Ministerial Office to him. I exhorted him more and more to repent and clear his conscience before he dy'd. To which he return'd this answer, That he repented with all his heart of all the Sins that he ever had committed, and trusted in God for Mercy, through the Merits of Jesus Christ. And here he further declar'd, That what he had told me before was true; and, That his Guilt was no other than he had then confess'd to me.

After this I pray'd and sung some Penitential Psalms with him: I made him rehearse the Articles of our Christian Faith: And then he said, That by the Grace of God he would die in that Faith, and hop'd for Eternal Life and Salvation.

Then he spoke to the People to this effect, That he had serv'd the QUEEN seven Years, and been in five Campaigns; That he had been a wild Young-man, and would be rambling abroad instead of going to Church: That tho' he was not guilty of those Robberies for which he was now to suffer, (that is to say, just in the manner as they were sworn agaisnt thim) yet as he had greatly offended God, so God had justly brought him to this his Shameful and Untimely End. This he acknowledg'd. Now there being (it seems) one of the Witnesses that had sworn against him, close by the Cart, he was entring upon a Discourse with him in his own Justification of the Facts he was charg'd withal; but upon my telling him, That this was not a proper Time and Place to reflect upon any body but himself; and, That he should consider the few minutes he had now to live in this World, and think on that Great GOD, before whose Tribunal he just going to appear, &c. he presently return'd to his Prayers, That God would be pleas'd to forgive him a great Sinner. He desir'd all Young Men, and others, to take Warning by him, and avoid his Sins, that they might not come to the like Condemnation. Sometimes he would express some uneasiness for his now having had the same Mercy shewn him as the other six Persons that receiv'd Sentence with him: But being made sensible, that his Crimes appear'd greater than theirs, he seeme'd to be more satisfied, and acquiesce in the Justice of his Condemnation. He solemnly (and that more than twice) declar'd here, That he died in Charity with all the World, and freely forgave all those that had done him any Injury, as he desir'd to have Forgiveness at God's Hand.

This being done, I retired; and after some further time allow'd him for his private Devotions, the Cart drew away, and he was turn'd off; all the while calling upon God in these and the like Ejaculations, Lord JESUS have mercy upon me! Lord receive my Soul, &c.

This is all the Account here to be given of this Dying Person, by

PAUL LORRAIN, Ordinary of Newgate.
March 23. 1708/9

China, 816 A.C.

Yuan Zhen to Bo JuYi:

Other people too have friends they love;
But ours was a love such as few friends have known.
You were all my sustenance; it mattered more
To see you daily than to get my morning food.
And if there was a single day when we did not meet
I would sit listless, my mind in a tangle of gloom.
To think we are now thousands of miles apart,
Lost like clouds, each drifting on his far way!
Those clouds on high, where many winds blow,
What is their chance of ever meeting again?
And if in open heaven those beings of the air
Are driven and thwarted, what of Man below?

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


Bo JuYi to Yuan Zhen:

Last night the clouds scattered everywhere,
for a thousand leagues the same moon color.
At dawn's coming I saw you in dreams;
it must be you were thinking of me.
In my dream I grasped your hand,
asked you what your thoughts were.
You said you thought of me with pain,
had no one to send a letter through.

When I awoke, I still had not spoken in reply.
a knock-on-the-door sound, rap rap!
Saying, "A messenger from Shangzhou,"
he delivered a letter of yours.
From the pillow I rose sudden and startled,
putting on my clothes topsy-turvy.
I opened the seal, saw the hand-letter,
one sheet, thirteen lines.

La luna

de Jaime Sabines (gracias, Valeria!)

La luna se puede tomar a cucharadas
o como una cápsula cada dos horas.
Es buena como hipnótico y sedante
y también alivia
a los que se han intoxicado de filosofía.
Un pedazo de luna en el bolsillo
es mejor amuleto que la pata de conejo:
sirve para encontrar a quien se ama,
para ser rico sin que lo sepa nadie
y para alejar a los médicos y las clínicas.
Se puede dar de postre a los niños
cuando no se han dormido,
y unas gotas de luna en los ojos de los ancianos
ayudan a bien morir. Pon una hoja tierna de la luna
debajo de tu almohada
y mirarás lo que quieras ver.
Lleva siempre un frasquito del aire de la luna
para cuando te ahogues,
y dale la llave de la luna
a los presos y a los desencantados.
Para los condenados a muerte
y para los condenados a vida
no hay mejor estimulante que la luna
en dosis precisas y controladas.

Al futuro tú

El futuro tú
no será como nadie.
ni como Mambrú
ni como las caries.

El futuro tú
será hijo del aire
cero esclavitud
nada que lo empañe.

Del futuro tú
deseo que ame
más allá del tú
y aprenda del aire.

Que al futuro tú
la sed de saber
nunca se le acabe.

En mi uña cabes...
pero eso era ayer.
Mi futuro tú.

(postdata agregada el 15 de octubre de 2010: hoy cumplís 5 meses, Consuelo, y aquel futuro tú resultaste ser vos. Prometo hacer lo posible porque este poema se te cumpla.)

Setenta balcones y ninguna flor

de Baldomero Fernández Moreno

Setenta balcones hay en esta casa,
setenta balcones y ninguna flor.
¿A sus habitantes, Señor, qué les pasa?
¿Odian el perfume, odian el color?

La piedra desnuda de tristeza agobia,
¡Dan una tristeza los negros balcones!
¿No hay en esta casa una niña novia?
¿No hay algún poeta bobo de ilusiones?

¿Ninguno desea ver tras los cristales
una diminuta copia de jardín?
¿En la piedra blanca trepar los rosales,
en los hierros negros abrirse un jazmín?

Si no aman las plantas no amarán el ave,
no sabrán de música, de rimas, de amor.
Nunca se oirá un beso, jamás se oirá una clave...

¡Setenta balcones y ninguna flor!

Nombres que me gustan

Cielo, Luz, Flor, Aurora, Amalia, Margarita, Eva, Quillén (Luna), Ágata, Camila, Carlota, Celia, Dana, Alelí, Elisa, Ema, Filipa,
Nehuén (Fuerte), Enzo, Andrés, Boris, Dan, Dante, Andante, Emilio, Félix, Horacio, Alejo, Antu (Sal en araucano)

La parábola de los talentos

En esta parábola un señor se va de viaje y deja su dinero, repartido en cantidades diversas, en manos de tres de sus siervos. A uno lo pone a cargo de 5 talentos, a otro de 2, y al tercero, de 1.

Los siervos que estaban a cargo de 5 y 2 talentos respectivamente, se ponen a comerciar con ellos y con sus ganancias doblan la cantidad de dinero a su cuidado, pero el tercer siervo simplemente entierra su talento, para mantenerlo al seguro.

Cuando después de mucho tiempo el señor vuelve, se muestra encantado con los dos primeros siervos, y les promete que los pondrá a cargo de muchas cosas más, puesto que se portaron tan bien con unos pocos talentos.

El tercer siervo, por su parte, explica sus acciones aduciendo temor, pues no quería correr el riesgo de perder el talento de su señor, a quien ve como a "un hombre duro, que cosecha donde no siembra y recoge donde no esparce".

El señor le responde, muy enojado, que si eso es lo que piensa de él, con más razón tendría que haber hecho algo con el dinero. Dice que el tercer siervo es "malo y perezoso" y ordena que le quiten su talento, sentenciando que "a todo el que tiene le será dado, y tendrá en abundancia; pero al que no tiene, aun lo que tiene le será quitado". Luego llama al siervo "inútil" y lo hace echar a la calle oscura.

La moraleja a extraer de este texto es obvia, sobre todo teniendo en cuenta que la unidad monetaria en cuestión se llama "talento": todos tenemos ciertas habilidades y capacidades, y tenemos que hacer lo mejor que podamos con ellas, mientras las poseamos. Mientras más hagamos, mejor nos irán las cosas, y si no hacemos nada, esas capacidades se atrofiarán y luego no podremos usarlas, incluso si lo deseamos.

Un precepto maravilloso, e interesante también porque presta argumentos en contra de quienes interpretan la biblia literalmente.

Por otro lado, me disgusta el elemento económico de la parábola... Además, el argumento literal de la historia es crudelísimo: este señor es muy sádico.

Las parábolas funcionan porque crean paralelos, pero si el señor es dios, a mí me parece que se comporta de forma mucho más mezquina y haragana que el tercer siervo.

Lo que pasa en realidad es que este precepto funciona mucho mejor sin la existencia de ningún señor. Tenemos que hacer lo mejor posible con los talentos que tenemos NO porque nadie nos los haya dado, sino porque intentarlo con todas nuestras fuerzas es nuestra mejor chance de alcanzar cualquier medida de felicidad para nosotros y quienes nos rodean.

La meseta

Subí hasta aquí, mas no para llegar
sino porque nací en una ladera:
abajo se veía una pradera
sin límites, rotunda como el mar.

Fui arriba entonces, puesto que al trepar
el horizonte nunca el mismo era
por delante. Que siempre cambio hubiera
fue todo cuanto yo aprendí a desear.

Ahora que el ascenso ha terminado
creía haber conquistado lo subido
pero parece que nada ha cambiado.

Abajo la pradera se ha extendido,
pues la altura me la ha desparramado
y es invisible el camino batido.

Poem to someone who's fallen asleep in the back seat

Akimbo
is the adjective to use
when your limbs
go each their own way.

Akimbo
like a man
so named
from some country
where they play drums
and have a thick rainforest.

Hello, Akimbo!
What's up today?
Nothing much, just saw Ikumba at the corner.
He was just drumming away.

Akimbo.

But that's not it, after all.

It looks plain
UNCOMFORTABLE

like
my chair sank under me
oops!

like
I've been hit in the back of the head
auch.

like
this is really worrying me
hmm...

like
I have to try and hold it in until these people get the hell
out.

Hans Would Wince

The fog is deep
and of cigarette smoke.
The foghorn is hoarse
punk rock guitars
that drift in
when she opens the door.

She then falls
more than sits,
petite
like the little mermaid
except this ain't Copenhagen bay
but some messy dorm's
dayroom
and rather than a sea-slicked rock
what she's crumpled down on
is a half deflated
red plush
airbag.

No scaly fish tail flipflops
on the dusty carpet
but tails she has,
nevertheless:
the pony kind
one blue
one orange
and flip-flop do go
her eyelids
a few times
before she definitely falls
asleep.

Lava lamp light
glints off her piercings
like sun rays do off the green waves
and deep as the ocean
is the rumor of her snores.

Play Death

To play Death,
take first thing your glasses off,
so that she knows who's in charge.
Play with her
and not at her.

Play as in toy with,
as in laugh at,
to make it always obvious
that you aren't truly
giving in or up.

You should always play
Death in an unnatural way,
because that she is not
and both you and her can tell
the difference.

Play Death
as a mime pretends to ride a horse
with a broom between his legs.

Play Death ludicrously,
in no position
that she would adopt
if left to her own devices.

When you play Death
be always
cackling,
insane.

Particularly
when it is her turn
to play.

Paper

Paper has a certain bounciness,
like mulchy soil.
It's made to be looked at
and yet it looks back.

Bored by your penetrating glare
it spurts up its dark riches,
geisers of black inked letters
and forest-dense images that
piped through your pupils,
power your neurons.
Curiosity put-put-putters on,
soul and thoughts get rolling.

That which inspires

WE EACH STAND ALONE, BUT WE ALL HAVE THAT IN COMMON.

PADRE NUESTRO

Padre nuestro que estás no sé dónde,
haz que no peleemos por tu nombre;
Venga a nosotros el razonamiento;
Hágase presente la empatía
en toda mente, incluso la mía;
El pan nuestro de cada día démosnoslo unos a otros no sólo hoy,
y perdonémonos nuestras ofensas, así como nos damos la oportunidad
de mejorar como personas;
Si caemos en la tentación,
puedan todos librarse del mal
y que nos sirva de lección;
Pues nuestros son la responsabilidad, el peligro y la determinación, por siempre.
Amén

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Our father who art who knows where,
let us not fight for your name;
May reasoning come;
Room for empathy be done in all minds, even mine;
Let us give each other every day our daily bread
and let us forgive each other our trespasses, as we give each other the chance of becoming better people;
If temptation overcomes us,
may everyone be delivered from evil
and let it be a lesson to all involved;
For ours is the responsibility, the danger and the resolve, for ever.
Amen.

Your Friend (by Khalil Gibran)

Your friend is your needs answered.
He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.
And he is your board and your fireside,
for you come to him with hunger,
and you seek him for peace.

Tu amigo es la respuesta a tus necesidades.
Es el campo que siembras con amor y cosechas con gratitud.
Él es tu hogar y tu mesa,
pues acudes a él cuando tienes hambre
y lo buscas cuando precisas paz.

Hávamál

Norse poetry from around the IX century. Here are some fragments:


Elds er þörf, þeims inn er kominn ok á kné kalinn;
matar ok váða er manni þörf, þeim er hefr um fjall farit.

Den som har komme inn og frys på knea, treng eld.
Den som har fare i fjell, treng mat og klede.

He who comes in with cold-shaking knees, needs fire.
He who has experienced the danger of the mountain, needs food and clothing.

- - -

Er-a svá gótt sem gótt kveða öl alda sona,
því at færa veit, er fleira drekkr síns til geðs gumi.

Øl er kje så godt for vettet som folk seier det er.
Når ølet går inn, går vettet ut.

Beer is not so good for wits as people say it is.
When beer goes in, wit is lost.

- - -

Ungr var ek forðum, fór ek einn saman, þá varð ek villr vega;
auðigr þóttumk, er ek annan fann,
maðr er manns gaman.

Då eg var ung og fór aleine, fór eg vill på vegen.
Då eg møtte ein annan, syntest eg at eg blei rikk.
Mann er mannens glede.

Once I was young and wandered alone and knew nothing of the road.
When I found a comrade, I felt rich,
for man is man's delight.

Harp Song of the Dane Women (by Rudyard Kipling)

WHAT is a woman that you forsake her,
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre.
To go with the old grey Widow-maker?

She has no house to lay a guest in
But one chill bed for all to rest in,
That the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in.

She has no strong white arms to fold you,
But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you
Out on the rocks where the tide has rolled you.

Yet, when the signs of summer thicken,
And the ice breaks, and the birch-buds quicken,
Yearly you turn from our side, and sicken- -

Sicken again for the shouts and the slaughters.
You steal away to the lapping waters,
And look at your ship in her winter-quarters.

You forget our mirth, and talk at the tables,
The kine in the shed and the horse in the stables
To pitch her sides and go over her cables.

Then you drive out where the storm-clouds swallow,
And the sound of your oar-blades, falling hollow,
Is all we have left through the months to follow.

Ah, what is Woman that you forsake her,
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,
To go with the old grey Widow-maker?

Din tanke er fri

En la clase de noruego escuchamos esta canción, que es una traducción noruega de una canción alemana que, durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial, era popular entre la resistencia. El título significa "tu pensamiento es libre".

Din tanke er fri,
hvem tror du den finner.
Den flykter forbi,
slik skygger forsvinner.
Den kan ikke brennes,
av fiender kjennes.
Og slik vil det alltid bli:
Din tanke er fri.

Jeg tenker hva jeg vil,
mitt ønske bestemmer.
I stillhet blir det til,
i ukjente drømmer.
Min tanke og lengsel
vil bryte hvert stengsel.
Og slik vil de alltid bli:
Min tanke er fri!

Og tvinges vi inn
bak jernslåtte dører,
da flykter den vind
som tankene fører.
Fordi våre tanker
kan rive ned skranker.
Os slik vil de alltid bli:
Vår tanke er fri!

Olav H. Hauge

A new poet I've found. Well, in fact, he's not so new. He wrote a while ago. Høgne introduced us to some of his poems in the nynorsk class. Here they are:

DET ER DEN DRAUMEN

Det er den draumen me ber på
at noko vedunderleg skal skje,
at det må skje --
at tidi skal opna seg
at hjarta skal opna seg
at dører skal opna seg
at berget skal opnsa seg
at kjeldor skal springa --
at draumen skal opna seg,
at me ei morgonstund skal glida inn
på ein våg me ikkje har visst um.

IT'S THE DREAM

It's the dream we carry in secret
that something miraculous will happen,
that it must happen --
that time will open
that the heart will open
that doors will open
that the rockface will open
that springs will gush --
that the dream will open,
that one morning we will glide into
some little harbour we didn't know was there.

**********

I DAG SÅG EG...

I dag såg eg to månar --
ein ny og ein gamal.

Eg har stor tru på ny-månen,
men det er vel den gamle.


TODAY I SAW...

Today I saw two moons --
a new one and an old one.

I have great confidence in the new moon,
but it is the same as the old one.

**********

KATTEN

Katten sit i tunet når du kjem.

Snakk litt med katten,
det er han som er varast i garden.

THE CAT

The cat sits in the yard when you come.

Speak a little with the cat;
it is him who's best acquainted with the farm.

Sullabullyam

This is a poem/song written by norwegian author Edvard Hoem. It talks about how everything passes and disappears from the world; even of the most sublime things that are, no traces will be left after a time... And yet, joyously, SULLABULLYAM!!!

Når vi har forlate den rullande jord,
og vatnet og vinden stryk ut våre spor,
når alt det vi sleit med er slutt og forbi,
høyr songen vi syng om den bortfarne tid.
Sullabullyam!

Lik lyset frå stjerner som ikkje fekk namn,
lik draumen om liv i den eviges famn,
slik styrer vår lengsel frå mørker og grav
til kystar ein stad bakom himmel og hav.
Sullabullyam!

Alt vakkert skal kverve i botnlause rom.
Den søtaste smak skal bli bitter og tom.
Og du som eg elska, skal også forgå!
Vi jublar mot vårar vi aldri skal sjå!
Sullabullyam!

Så lytt til ei nynning når natta er still,
ja, lytt til vår song når vi ikkje er til.
Høyr fuglar og harper og stigande song,
frå oss som gjekk bort, men som levde ein gong!
Sullabullyam!

Marble

What did Sabina think about Hadrian's relationship with Antinous? What were Hadrian feelings for each of them? How did they fill their days? What did they say to each other and what did they refrain from saying? Was there fear, love, submission, hate, pain, acquiescence, indifference? How were their lives like before they met? What were Antinous' expectations for the adulthood he never reached?

I'd love to know. These marble portraits, particularly Hadrian's, look so very lifelike and expressive. I know they do not hold the answers, but they must have been posed for, or been copied from posed-for originals. How much do these faces communicate of the thoughts that fleeted behind them when they were flesh? Antinous, idolized, was re-sculpted so many times after his death that he is somehow the least real to me, and thus the hardest to read. Sabina, on the other hand... did her bitterness and resignation and sadness truly pass into the stone, or am I just imagining them?

Armani Jeans Publicity

Here's a picture of a 5m x 5m poster advertising Armani Jeans at Termini Train Station in Rome. If you happen to go there these days, you'll see it still.
My thoughts (funnily, all questions) on looking at this add are:
1) Are these the jeans one buys when one is a drug addict and/or drunk and/or anorexic and/or suicidally depressed?
2) After the photo shoot, did the Emporio Armani people also provide the necessary medical care to these two girls?
3) If this is a jeans add, why didn't they include an image of the jeans in the poster?