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)
Monday, September 28, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, August 07, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
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.
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.
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?
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?
Friday, March 13, 2009
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!
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!
Thursday, February 19, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, January 30, 2009
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!
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!
Saturday, January 17, 2009
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?
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
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?
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?
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Having acquired
Having acquired 60 minutes of internet connection at Oslo Airport, and with only 10 to go, i decide to write a few sentences here, after having skyped with my family in Argentina and facebooked a little with Liz, whom i'll be meeting in Budapest.
Weird to think that internet connection is bought, immaterial as it is. What is one buying? Bandwith... But really, there's no band, and the width we're talking about is not truly measurable in the metric system. What is the material make-up of what i'm buying?
What i'm really buying is the possibility of doing something. In the end, that's what it comes down to: when you buy food, you buy the possibility to continue to fuel your body. When you buy a car, you pay for the possibility to move faster and at your whim from one place to another. And so on and so forth.
Air will be paid for, also, when someone comes up with the idea of scrubbing all the shit we've put into it with factories and cars.
Weird to think that internet connection is bought, immaterial as it is. What is one buying? Bandwith... But really, there's no band, and the width we're talking about is not truly measurable in the metric system. What is the material make-up of what i'm buying?
What i'm really buying is the possibility of doing something. In the end, that's what it comes down to: when you buy food, you buy the possibility to continue to fuel your body. When you buy a car, you pay for the possibility to move faster and at your whim from one place to another. And so on and so forth.
Air will be paid for, also, when someone comes up with the idea of scrubbing all the shit we've put into it with factories and cars.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Franco Sacchetti (1330? - 1400)
Passando con pensier per un boschetto,
Donne per quello givan fior cogliendo,
"To' quel, to' quel" dicendo,
"Eccolo! eccolo!"
"Che è, che è?"
"È fior alliso."
"Va' là per le viole!"
"Omè, che 'l prun mi punge!"
"Quell'altra me' v'aggiunge."
"Uh! uh! o che è quel che salta?"
"È un grillo."
"Venite qua, correte:
Raponzoli cogliete."
"E' non son essi." "Sì, sono."
"Colei, o colei,
Vie' qua. Vie' qua pe' funghi."
"Costà, costà pel sermollino."
"No' starem troppo,
Chè 'l tempo si turba!"
"E' balena."
"E' truona."
"E vespero già suona."
"Non è egli ancor nona."
"Odi, odi:
È l'usignuol che canta:
Più bel v'è,
Più bel v'è."
"I' sento... e non so che."
"Ove?" "Dove?"
"In quel cespuglio."
Tocca, picchia, ritocca,
Mentre che 'l busso cresce,
Ed una serpe n'esce.
"Omè trista!" "Omè lassa!"
"Omè!"
Fuggendo tutte di paura piene,
Una gran piova viene.
Qual sdrucciola,
Qual cade,
Qual si punge lo pede.
A terra van ghirlande.
Tal ciò c'ha colto lascia, e tal percuote.
Tiensi beata chi più correr puote.
Sì fisso stetti il dì che lor mirai,
Ch'io non m'avidi, e tutto mi bagnai.
Donne per quello givan fior cogliendo,
"To' quel, to' quel" dicendo,
"Eccolo! eccolo!"
"Che è, che è?"
"È fior alliso."
"Va' là per le viole!"
"Omè, che 'l prun mi punge!"
"Quell'altra me' v'aggiunge."
"Uh! uh! o che è quel che salta?"
"È un grillo."
"Venite qua, correte:
Raponzoli cogliete."
"E' non son essi." "Sì, sono."
"Colei, o colei,
Vie' qua. Vie' qua pe' funghi."
"Costà, costà pel sermollino."
"No' starem troppo,
Chè 'l tempo si turba!"
"E' balena."
"E' truona."
"E vespero già suona."
"Non è egli ancor nona."
"Odi, odi:
È l'usignuol che canta:
Più bel v'è,
Più bel v'è."
"I' sento... e non so che."
"Ove?" "Dove?"
"In quel cespuglio."
Tocca, picchia, ritocca,
Mentre che 'l busso cresce,
Ed una serpe n'esce.
"Omè trista!" "Omè lassa!"
"Omè!"
Fuggendo tutte di paura piene,
Una gran piova viene.
Qual sdrucciola,
Qual cade,
Qual si punge lo pede.
A terra van ghirlande.
Tal ciò c'ha colto lascia, e tal percuote.
Tiensi beata chi più correr puote.
Sì fisso stetti il dì che lor mirai,
Ch'io non m'avidi, e tutto mi bagnai.
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