Aldo Manutio era un escriptor i impressor italià al qual se li atribueix l'honor d'inventar les tipografies i establir el patró de publicacions que coneixem avui en dia. El seu lema personal Festina Lente és un savi consell que dissenyà amb una àncora entrellaçada amb dofins. Els dofins rabiosos i la sòlida àncora il·lustren una veritat paradoxal: El progrés bo i veritable flueix de la unió entre l'impetuositat i l'alentiment. Ens surt millor quan ho fem lentament i tot i així ens donem pressa.

diumenge, 3 de juliol del 2011

Risking status

True subjectivation is a bit more than that. Some people may perhaps be that, but a majority of the people they are still far from true subjectivation. When you have a status -and think about yourself, I think about me, so everyone has to look at it. When you have a status, look at how fearful you may be at risking that. When you are in a position to risk that -and we have seen this here in the universities at the UK, in academia- we see this inconsistency gap between being very outspoken in public, in meetings like this one, or in the corridors, and afterwards, in the business' usual meeting people go along with whatever, and I have to tell you, I'm a little bit fed up with that, you know. When you are in a position to risk... -and the last point, somebody said it: leave everything behind and follow me. We don't need to reach this point yet, we need to reach the first point: be able to risk. So make a wordchain and be able to risk. Risk your status there. Risk it. So in relation to this political form of organization we need true subjectivation, and two things: distance from the State -and here the state obviously, means the State with capital S, and related to that, the break or non-break between the time of subjectivation in the public squares.

Carlos Frade -University of Salford, -13.01 Minute.
http://backdoorbroadcasting.net/2011/06/the-rise-of-the-indignant-spain-greece-europe/

Slavoj Žižek - What does it mean to be a revolutionary today? Marxism 2009



We need people like this. People who... you know, bring forth the enemy, go through and see where they stand, where we stand. In the good old days -now comes the dirty old conclusion, I warn you- in the good old days of freely existing Socialism, a joke was popular among dissidents -a joke used to illustrate the futility of their protests. In the fifteenth century old Russia, occupied by mongols, that's the joke, a farmer and his wife walked along a dusty countryroad. A mongol warrior on a horse stopped at their side and tells the farmer that he will now rape his wife. 'But since there is a lot of dust in the ground you should hold my testicles while I'm raping your wife so that they will not get dusty, dirty'. After the mongol finishes his job and drives away, the farmer starts to laugh and jump with joy. The surprised wife asks him, 'How can you be jumping with joy when I was just brutally raped?'. The farmer answers 'But I got him! His balls are full of dust!'. This sad joke tells off the predicament of dissidents. They thought they were dealing serious blows to the party nomenclatura but all they were doing was well, getting a little bit of dust on the nomenclatura's testicles. Is today's critical left all too often not in a similar position? We think we are doing something terribly subversive but we are just.... Our task is to discover how to make a step further. Our theses today should be critical leftists have hither to dirt with dust the balls of those in power. The point is to cut them off.

Minute 21.45
Enllaç

Jarvis Cocker on Writing and Publishing his Lyrics from FaberBooks on Vimeo.

about moralities. not explanations.

-I got an organic pizza.
-As opposed to an inorganic one?
-There's no chemicals in it.
-What, none? What's it made from, neutrinos?
-You know what I mean. It's got, like, natural peperoni on it.
-I shudder to think what unnatural peperoni would be.
-Suit yourself. More for me, then.
-Is that an "organic" Cola you're having with it?
-I'm going to eat this somewhere else.

Moral: Organic people of the world , screw you. Consider the lobster.

dijous, 12 de maig del 2011

How To Make Money In London

How To Make Money In London

Apr. 18, 2011

“Hi I saw your ad and would love to meet you later today, I live in Blackheath in SE London, have my own place, I can pay your travel over if interested? Please get back x”

“Hi darling, sent you a message earlier, forgot to give you my mobile no: xxxxxxxxxxxxx Prepared to give you more than £200 per hour if interested? xx Btw I am an ok looking guy!”

“ok sounds great when is a good time? we can meet at the nearest tube station to you i dont have a phone btw we’ll have to coordinate over email but would love to meet asap, emily”

“Hi Emily, thanks for getting back, I am based in Blackheath and would love to meet you about 7 tonight if that’s not too late? I am not near a tube station but could meet u at Blackheath railway station or arrange taxi? Pls get back”

“i can meet you at blackheath. 7 tonight is fine”

“Ok I will meet you at the railway station at 7, how will I know you? And can you confirm that you are not part an agency, i’m not interested in that. Sorry to ask ”

“i’ll be wearing the big sunglasses as in the photo and i’ll have a black plaid shirt on and a black skirt w/ black tights and black heels. how can i confirm it? here’s a link to my facebook page if that makes me seem more real. will you pay me at the station and then we’ll go back to your place? how much do you want to pay if not 200 pounds?”

“Thank you for your honesty, I will give you the £200 at the station, then extra £100 at my place. Could I also buy you a drink when you get to Blackheath?”

“okay it sounds fine. a drink sounds great too. thanks for not giving me a hard time. looking forward to seeing you x”

i stared at the computer screen.

i am i really going to do this? i guess i don’t have any choice.
i have about 12 pounds to last me for 10 more days in london.

what did i do to my debit card? the last time i remember having it was when i was buying a ticket to portsmouth at waterloo…

how could you be so irresponsible, marie?

but, i’m fixing the problem now.

there’s nothing else i can do, having not told any of my family or friends that i was going to england.

anyway, i want to make my own money, now that i’m 20.

_____

i looked up how to get to blackheath railway station. i felt annoyed that i couldn’t just ride the tube. i had to go to london bridge, and then take a train from there.

it was 2 PM. i got off the computer and went and tried to nap in my hostel room.

starting from 4 i changed my clothes, brushed my teeth, straightened my hair, put perfume on, and tried to hide my huge dark circles with concealer. it was a lost cause. i figured i would just keep my sunglasses on until i was back at his place, when it would be too late for him to change his mind. i wondered if i was cheating him, by getting 300 pounds to have sex with him. i wondered why he would offer to pay more than i asked. i thought it was a bit suspicious, but i figured since we were meeting in public and he was paying me upfront it’d be okay.

_____

i left the hostel at 4:30.

as i was walking to the tube station i heard whistling from across the street and turned to look. it was some australian boys about my age from my hostel, waving at me. i ignored them.

i rode the tube to london bridge station thinking about how i had met my friend there a few days ago, and how now i was going back under such different circumstances.

on the tube there were three school girls absolutely plastered in make-up talking at length about their diets and other girls at school. they all had incredibly grating voices, even more so than most english women.

“i was good yesterday, but this morning i had toast. oh but then for lunch i had cherries.”

“cherries are good, but the toast …”

“the other day i ate sooo much i had …”

“did you see she dyed her hair ginger and black? yeah, like that’s attractive.”

“she’s sooo fat, it’s hilarious!”

they all started giggling at length and it was so grating and i was so hungover

i couldn’t take it and switched compartments at the next stop.

as i was getting off the train one of them said, “that girl looked really weird.”

how can people like that actually exist?

i wondered what the guy would be like. i wished i had asked him to send me a picture. he had seemed like the nicest and was the most serious (i had annoyed with and ignored the guys who asked me to send them tons of pictures and write paragraphs about “what i was into.”)

i was worried i wouldn’t be able to talk to him or that things would be really awkward, but i decided i’d buy beer at a convenience store and chug it before i met him, so i’d be tipsy and less nervous.

_____

the train to blackheath was annoying. i had a headache from being hungover, and it was absolutely packed with loud italian tourists who kept yelling and laughing almost right in my ear. i held my head in my hands. “i can’t stand these fucking people,” i whispered.

but then i looked at an adorable little black boy and smiled at him. then i felt a bit sad.

my train arrived at bleackheath station at about 6 pm. i walked to a convenience store and bought two stella artois. there wasn’t really anywhere i could sit and drink it discretely, so i guzzled one can in front of a trash can, and figured i would save the other can for a bit.

a lot of people gave me looks. blackheath was really pretty and really rich looking. everyone was pretty and well dressed. i felt uncomfortable.

i wondered where to wait for the guy. i decided just to lean against a wall near the exit of the train station.

two teenagers came up to me, one a very cute girl.

“do you get served?” she asked.

“what?”

“do you get served?” she asked again, more slowly.

“i don’t understand what you’re asking me, sorry.”

they walked away.

i realized she meant that she wanted me to buy her alcohol. i sighed realizing i would probably never get the chance to get a cute 15 year old english girl drunk again.

i saw a kind looking business man waiting in front of the station across the sidewalk from me, smoking.

i went up to him. “um, can i get a cigarette off of you, please?”

“what?”

“may i have a cigarette, please?”

“um, sure.” he said and gave me one.

“thanks.”

i needed to smoke because it was 6:30 now and the whole thing was starting to seem more real to me.

i tried to comfort myself with these thoughts: i won’t get hurt because it doesn’t really make sense to think that will happen. most men want to have sex with cute 20 year old girls. very few are sociopath serial killers. caroline had sex with tons of guys from craigslist and nothing bad ever happened to her. and england isn’t nearly as violent…

and then i started to think: and anyway, i kind of don’t care if i get murdered. i guess that’s an immature thing to think and if something actually happened i’d be terrified, but right now thinking about it, i don’t care. i guess it’d be bad if I got murdered and then they told my parents the situation but…

i was mostly anxious about him not finding me attractive or not showing up and me being out of money, or not having anything to say and it being really awkward.

i looked at myself in the reflective window of the train station.

“don’t worry, you look beautiful,” some old man said as he walked past me.

i leaned back up against the wall, checking the clock constantly. i looked at every guy who walked towards the station, wondering if it was him. i was again mad at myself for not asking for a picture or at least a description. but i also figured it was probably for the best so i couldn’t back out due to his unattractiveness.

then finally at about 5 minutes past 7, a bald middle aged man in a banker’s shirt and khakis came up to me.

“hello, it’s great to see you, emily. i was worried you wouldn’t turn up!”

“hello, nice to meet you.” i said politely, and shook his hand.

“i have to go to the cash machine, but i’ll be back in about five minutes okay?”

“okay.”

i wondered if he was really going to the atm or if he thought i was unattractive and was running away.

but, no, he came back quickly.

he seem very excited.

he lead me to a pub.

“i was trying to imagine what black plaid would look like, but then i saw your sunglasses and realized that it must have been you…”

he told me about how he was a bank manager and worked for a french company and went to france all of the time. i told him about how much i liked france and wanted to go there, talked about how i liked french music and existentialism when i was in high school and françois truffaut and jane birkin and anna karina and how i had a stalker once who said i look just like chantal goya and how much i wanted to smoke gauloises…i didn’t care i guess about entertaining him like i was probably supposed to and was just thinking about the things i liked to keep my mind off of what was actually happening.

i told him about how i was studying art and design, how i made money designing websites and pamphlets and that sort of thing.

“you do look like an art student.”

it was pleasant enough i guess, it was like the feeling i got when i talked to my uncle who i see at christmas sometimes.

at the pub i told him to get me whatever cider he recommended.

i was nervous about him not having paid me right away, but i figured it was okay since we were at a pub. if he didn’t pay me here, i would just leave.

he came back to our table with a cider and a beer.

“i’ve been like really obsessed with cider since i’ve came here. like i never had it before…”

he told me the difference between lager and beer and about where he had grown up which apparently was famous for lager or something.

he asked me why i came to england.

told him about how i had always liked british music and fashion especially lately i really like alexa chung, and how i thought that people back home would be really impressed and jealous when i told them about how i had been to london.

we talked about how much we like the smiths. i thought about how in america you would never find a stuffy, middle aged banker who liked the smiths.

“do you want something else?” he asked when i had finished my cider.

“yeah, i want a mimosa, like buck’s fizz.”

we had to mix the champagne and orange juice ourselves.

after drinking a glass i finally asked, “um, do you want to pay me the first bit now?”

“yeah, certainly i do,” he said and reached into his wallet and handed me the money underneath the table.

i counted it quickly and put it in my bag.

it really was 200 pounds.

and now i had money, so now i was happy again.

since i had left my parents house i was constantly struggling with money. my first year of college i would often go two or three days in a row without eating. when i later moved to chicago i was sick with anxiety the first few days i lived there that due to an error with my bank that i was going to be thrown out into the street. i got that same panicked, anxious feeling in london when i had ripped through my suitcase and purse and hadn’t been able to find my debit card.

i thought then that not having to endure that kind of horrible stress and fear was worth whatever happened with this guy. and that i just want lots and lots of money and expensive things so i don’t ever have to be afraid of what’s going to happen to me again, no matter what i have to do to get it.

“I’m really hungry, will you buy me something to eat?” i asked.

“sure. do you want a burger, maybe? the menu’s right there.”

“i think i want fish n chips.”

“you’re going to eat fish n chips and champagne?” he laughed.

“yeah, what’s wrong with that?”

he went to the bar to order me my fish and chips.

when he sat back down we talked more about london and other general things.

somehow it got to me admitting, “you can probably tell i’ve never done anything like this before.”

“yeah. i mean the way you look and how you were so nervous when i first met you, it’s nothing like agency girls. i mean i was nervous, too…”

“how many times have you done this?”

“this is the third time. the first two times were with professional girls and i had absolutely nothing to say to them. but with you, you seem intelligent. like there’ s a lot going on behind you.”

“i’m smart at some things i guess, but not with people or at growing up. and those are the important things…”

_____

the waiter brought me my fish and chips. he was cute. i wondered if it looked to other people like i was here with my dad.

“is it supposed to be a filet?”

“yeah. it’s very traditional fish and chips. they even gave you mushy peas.”

“in america fish and chips is usually like fish sticks you know. i guess it wouldn’t be authentic…”

after eating and finishing the rest of the champagne i said, “do you wanna go?”

while walking back to his place some tween girls walking past us stopped and asked him if he could help them because they were lost. he looked up directions for them on his iphone. he was very sweet to them. i thought how surreal it was, for there to be bunch of little kids talking politely to a man who was with a prostitute. i wished i had a cigarette.

“that was nice of you, to help those kids,” i said.

_____

his place was nice. i could tell he was well off, i guess. but it also felt uncomfortably stark and lonely.

i sat down on his couch.

“do you want to pay me the rest now?”

he gave me one hundred more pounds, which i put into my bag.

we talked some more.

he asked me if i thought there was anything wrong with what we were doing, and i said that i didn’t think so.

he agreed. “we could have met at a pub. of course you might not have gone home with me then, but…”

“i was only going to do it with one guy, and you seemed like the least creepy.”

“really? only one?”

_____

i asked him about his first time, since I always ask men about that.

he told me about losing it at 17. he told me about how he had fallen in love with the girl he lost it to, and how “those feelings never really go away,” which worried me as someone who was still very much in love with the person they lost their virginity to, a year and a half ago.

we talked some more and it got around to him admitting “well, i’m seeing someone. but, i don’t know if we’re still together. she’s in south america right now, studying yoga. she hasn’t been in contact with me in a few months. i mean, people are adults, and can make their own decisions…”

there was some silence.

“listen, emily. i don’t want you to do something that you really don’t want to do. you don’t have to have sex with me, you can take the money and go.”‘

i briefly considered it.

i’m not used to people being nice to me.

“no, it’s okay. i don’t believe in stealing or whatever.”

he said he had to go into the other room for something. while he was walking away i took off my clothes and stood up.

when he came back and saw me he said, “oh, that’s beautiful. you’re really beautiful and like naturally beautiful.”

“yeah, i grew up mostly in los angeles, and there most of the girls were like fake blonde fake tan lots of make-up you know, which is cool i guess, but it was just never my thing…”

_____

i sat down on his couch and gave him a blowjob while he was standing up in front of me. i didn’t really feel disgusted or anything like i was afraid i would. it was okay.

but then he kneeled down and started to go down on me, which was really gross. i don’t like it even when a really hot guy does it. i forced myself to moan like i was enjoying it.

when he stopped i stood up.

“do you want to fuck me?”

“of course i do.” he sounded nervous. “do you have a condom? because i don’t.”

“yeah, i have one,” i said and got one from my purse.

he made some joke about how one should never look in a woman’s purse.

we went into his bedroom, and he laid down on the bed.

i handed him the condom and he put it on.

“oh, you want me to be on top, huh?”

so i did and again it was like whatever, it wasn’t gross or disturbing.

he laid there and had an erection while i moved.

“do you want to do it another way?”

“what?”

“because i just feel kind of tired.”

“well, i’ve just cum, so. good timing, i guess.”

i couldn’t believe my luck, with him being a two pump chump.

we both got dressed.

he said he would call a taxi for me.

he went to go use the phone. i sat on his couch.

“i’ve just called the taxi and it should be here in about ten minutes. can i get you anything?”

“can you get me like coffee, ‘cos i’m really tired. just black coffee, nothing in it. and toast with marmite on it, if you have it.”

he went to go make me those things.

i smoked the cigarette i saw laying on his table.

i looked in my purse at all of the money i had now.

he brought me the coffee and marmite toast on a tray, but when i grabbed the coffee cup it was so hot that i yelped and dropped it all over his white couch.

“oh god, i’m so sorry!”

“no, it’s okay. i’m sorry for handing you that. i didn’t realize how hot the cup was. stains can easily be washed out, but scars are forever…”

i ate my toast standing.

he gave me 50 pounds for taxi fare.

“you know, emily, don’t make a habit out of this. you seem like there’s a lot going on behind you. you don’t seem like the kind of girl to do this.”

“well i just had to, since i lost my debit card. i only planned to do this once. and, you know, no girl wants to do this, but if i had to do it i’m glad it was with you.”

“i understand, i mean especially in london, where you just seem to burn through money so fast…”

he wanted me to keep in contact with him, he said he wanted to show me london, “even though this is such a strange way to meet someone.”

i lied and said i would email him.

he talked about how strange life is. “you never know what’s going to happen from day to day. like waking up this morning i had no idea that going on that website that i hardly ever go on these days would lead to me sleeping with a 20 year old later today…”

then my taxi was here.

i kissed him on the mouth (he asked me if i minded and i said i didn’t) and hugged him and we said goodbye.

i took the taxi back to hendon central tube station.

dijous, 28 d’abril del 2011

pixies

One, two, three
She's a real left-winger 'cause she been down south
And held peasants in her arms, she said
"I could tell you stories that could make you cry. What about you?"
I said, "Me too. I could tell you a story that would make you cry."
And she sighed, "Ahh."

I said, "I want to be a singer like Lou Reed."
"I like Lou Reed," she said, sticking her tongue in my ear.
"Let's go, let's sit, let's talk, politics goes so good with beer.
"And while we're at it, baby, why don't you tell me one of your
biggest fears?"
I said, "Losing my penis to a whore with disease."
"Just kidding," I said. "Losing my life to a whore with disease."
She said, "Excuse me, please?"
I said, "Losing my life to a horrible disease."
She said, "Please."
Well, I'm a humble guy with healthy desire
Don't give me no shit because

I've been tired, I've been tired, I've been tired
I've been tired, I've been tired, I've been tired

I told the tale of a girl but I call her a woman
She's a little bit older than me
Strong legs, strong face, voice like milk, breasts like a cluster of
grapes
I can't escape her ways she raise me

She make me feel like Solomon
Beware your babies even if you have no one
And while we're at it baby, why don't you tell me one of your biggest
fears?
You don't want to sleep after setting my loins on fire
Well, that's okay because

I've been tired, I've been tired, I've been tired
I've been tired, I've been tired, I've been tired
I've been tired, I've been tired, I've been tired
I've been tired, I've been tired, I've been tired
I've been tired, I've been tired, I've been tired
T-I-R-E-D spells it, spells it, spells it, spells it

dimarts, 26 d’abril del 2011

Linguists New Year resolutions

Written by Natacha Cullinan

Starting off another year - Focus Friends Starting off another year - Focus Friends lizzalou66
Foreign language students from across the UK have been writing in to let us in on their own New Year’s resolutions for 2011. Here are some of the very best ideas to improve your language skills and, best of all, they’re pretty easy to do...
1) Start your own blog
With great sites like Blogger and WordPress, with easy to use layouts and editing tools, you really don’t have much of an excuse not to...Even if it is just a post of a couple of lines, write it in your target language. Look for videos, photos, research your year abroad destination or post something about it if you’re back, speak of your favourite film/artist/singer...Have a rant, the world wide web is the best thing since sliced baguette, so make use of it. Plus it’s nice to make mistakes and have people kindly correct you, as opposed to getting marked down.

2) Become the next Trevor MacDonald
Most students read some sort of newspaper or get their news fix off the BBC’s website. What they usually don’t do is rewrite their own mini news report (or the full thing) in a foreign language. If you fancy getting into journalism, this could be a way forward. If you fancy making up news as you go along, hey, why not - just do in French/Spanish/German or whichever language you’re studying and you’ve got yourself some practice, for free. You could decide to keep them to yourself or post them up on a blog, too.

3) Follow, fan and feast your eyes on these
Yes, I might have made up a word there - but it was all in my linguistic emotional cry to the reader, by the means of alliteration. Right, so, back to where we were: social media. Twitter, Facebook and Scribd entitle you to a world of languages and communities, straight through your computer screen. You can follow your favourite language sites, such as @thirdyearabroad and Transparent Language, where you can hear about the latest news for linguists and language-lovers. Tips and hints about grammar, vocab, courses and much more at the tip of a finger. Fan pages on Facebook can prove to be really useful - why not try Erasmus. Scribd, on the other hand, lets you read up on foreign writing, from newspapers to magazines to literature. Get some followers too, if you sign up and post your very own creative musings, in English or if you’re feeling like getting some feedback on your language skills, in your target language.

4) YouTube
Ok so this could go above, but we felt like it needed its own section. The stuff you can find on here ranges from the weird, wild and plain boring, but in between, you can come across some real gems...How about searching ‘Year Abroad’ and seeing what the subscribers have come up with? Or why not follow this lovely lady, as she tells us how her own year abroad is going:



Watch and learn, kids, watch and learn.

5) Write a film, book or song review
But in your target language - you’ll learn new vocab and it doesn’t have to be essay-length, perfect. And with Amazon’s reward scheme, you might even get some vouchers out of it!

6) Read a play (and act it out)
You don’t necessarily have to do this in a group, though it can be more fun that way! Plus you’ll get to hear different accents, intonations and such like, so you’re bound to improve and help others do so in the same way. Reading and voicing out plays gives you the chance to speak more fluently, as although you won’t get as much vocabulary out of it as in a descriptive novel, you’ll get the chance to learn how the language is laid out, cut, altered and shortened orally.

7) Say or think about what you’re doing in your foreign language
How do you say ‘I’m chopping an onion and cleaning the cutting board after’ in German? ‘Washing my clothes before it starts to rain’ in Russian? These are expressions you’ll need if you’re planning on moving to another country. Getting to know vocabulary for daily tasks is pretty basic, but you’re never taught them in class. Learn as you go about your tasks, the linguistic way.

8) Model your accent on your favourite foreign actor
This is a sure-fire way of getting you to gain a better accent, and all the while by watching, rewatching and forever watching shows and movies you love. You can practise a couple of sentences each day, in the knowledge that they are also gramatically correct. Or you could alternatively follow one or two actors, and swap their accents round - say, for example, someone from the North of France compared to someone from the South:



9) Switch your computer/phone/email/google to your target language
Might seem like another silly thing to do, but it does work. Plus if you’re abroad and something breaks down on your trusted laptop, you’ll know exactly what they’re talking about when you ring for help. Google search in your foreign language will also mean that you’ll come across far more articles from your chosen country. Even if you do end up ‘wasting’ half an hour looking through the first few articles, you will have been practising all the while!

10) Get a subscription to a magazine
Fashion in French? Fast cars in Italian? Cooking recipes in Spanish? Sports in German? Or you could go for politics, the news and something more serious - it doesn’t really matter, as long as you’re reading about something that interests you in another language.

Bingo! Fluent in no time, and having fun whilst you’re learning. Read up about the best online resources for language-learners here!
http://www.thirdyearabroad.com/language-skills/item/608-language-learning-new-year

10 tried-and-tested ways to make the most of your year abroad

Written by Lizzie Fane

10 tried-and-tested ways to make the most of your year abroad SimonDownUnder

Before you disappear off on your year abroad, your tutors will tell you that you are principally there to discover a new place, become more independent and (for the linguists among you) learn to speak the language fluently. A tall order - so where on earth do you start?! Read on for our most successful ways to come back from a year abroad feeling that you've truly made the most of every second you were away.

1. Live with locals

You’ll pick up the accent and become fluent more quickly if you truly make the effort to join in. Use this as an opportunity to become a local yourself and to explore each other’s cultures: whip up a Sunday roast for your flatmates and expect something equally traditional in return.

by Lee and Heather2. Try new food

The best example of this is cereal. If the locals breakfast on espresso and pastries, then do the same! Don’t hunt for your usual imported comfort food at the supermarket.

3. Vocab boost

When you don’t understand a foreign word, ask for a synonym and NOT an English translation. Leave your dictionary in your apartment during the day as a challenge, and write new words, expressions and their translations in a tiny credit card-sized notebook.

4. Get a bicycle

You will be able to fit SO much more into your day [see no. 5] if you can cross your new town/city in just a few minutes. Cycling will also keep you fit and healthy so you’ll feel you can indulge more on local delicacies!

Drawing Class by Claremont Colleges5. Take courses and classes

You will quickly meet like-minded people (students and locals alike) while learning a new skill that you’re interested in and, in so doing, practising your foreign language skills! Think: salsa dancing in Spanish, pizza-making in Italian, life-drawing in French... the possibilities are endless!

6. English-speaking opportunities

Register as bilingual at your local Embassy. They get requests for English-speakers from casting directors, guidebook editors, voice-over coordinators and freelance journalists so you could get some really fun work experience on your CV!

7. Discover your city

Explore and keep a record! That’s what (bicycles) blogs, journals, TYA and blank Moleskine city guides are for [see no. 8/9]. Get off at a random bus stop and walk home, buy a guidebook and check places off as you visit, ask locals for their unmissable favourites... just get out and about!

Lubitel 2 by George Jijiashvil8. Document your year

Photos, sketchbooks, videos, blogs, journals, scrapbooks, memory boxes - find a way in which you like to express yourself and record all your adventures for posterity. Blurb is a great piece of software where you can combine photos, blog posts and journal scans into a beautiful dust jacketed hardback book.

9. Create a guide

If you create the ‘definitive guide’ to your city, you will be so grateful for it on your next return when you’re hazy on the details, and you can lend it to friends, family and future year abroaders. Don’t forget to include: tried-and-tested cafes and restaurants, the best things to do on a Sunday and things you’d never find in a normal guidebook.

10. Ship in friends

The best way to appreciate your year abroad destination is to invite ‘home friends’ to stay and then give them a guided tour of your absolute favourite things to see and do, especially hidden-away and off the tourist track secret finds. When you see their response, you’ll never want to leave!

How To Be Alone

Apr. 19, 2011

Go to sleep too late. Wake up too early. Eat bagels in a strip mall with someone you had a class with at community college. Spend lunch breaks wandering grocery store aisles. Meet your mother at a diner. Attend “bar night” with some co-workers. Leave last. Smoke a cigarette. Paint your nails blue. Have sex right away or don’t have it at all. Look up flight prices to exotic locations. Write a craigslist ad and don’t respond to any of the replies.

Talk to people. Nod your head. Review conversations you’ve had. Suspect there’s something wrong with you. Take personality tests, expecting if not answers then at least a diagnosis. Move into a house with two men who become best friends. Go to the movies by yourself and pick one that starts in 15 minutes because it starts in 15 minutes. Buy an ice cream bar from the concession stand. See your roommates. All of you have tickets for the same movie. Bite your ice cream and grin at them.

Sublet a one-bedroom apartment. Buy a plant. Sleep in clothes. Pop zits. Talk into a miniature tape recorder. Photograph your kitchen. Drive to 24-hour grocery stores. Set three alarms. Listen to books on tape. Read until your muscles are cramped and it’s hard to be comfortable. Use old gift cards. Think of baking something. Think of fixing your bike. Take notes in biology. There is a class of bacteria that only survives in extreme climates like deep-sea hot springs. After class ask your professor what they’re called. He says “Archaea,” and looks like he wants to start a conversation.

Get little cuts on your hands from things no one else does. Edges of doors, Post-it notes, a pineapple. Feel like you need to pay people for interacting with you. Masturbate standing up in the living room looking out the window. Stare at an open sore on your finger. Rub it with saliva and watch the surrounding skin redden. Wonder if you’re allergic to yourself. Notice alien, almost slapstick qualities of your naked body in the mirror.

Move into your mom’s condo. “We’re just eating it because it’s here,” she says about a cake. At night she clamors around the kitchen, looking for pecans. She warns you of a man she’s seen in the bushes. After she goes to sleep, exercise in her condo’s small gym. Jog on the treadmill and watch six astronauts on TV receive time-delayed messages from their families. One astronaut is preoccupied with his watch. Run past the bushes on your way home.

Remember dates you’ve had. Take baths. Think of the empty space between atoms. Feel your pulse beat under your skin. It sounds like an ellipsis. Drive to see if “20 miles in one direction” is the same 20 miles back. On the radio, bursts of static interrupt traffic reports like sarcastic applause. Remember parties. Look at the phone as if it has a delicious meal it’s not sharing. Eat watermelon in your car. Stare at your fingers on the steering wheel. Wonder how you’re always driving towards the horizon without vanishing into it. Spend two hours in a craft store searching for something you keep forgetting. Examine a cardboard cylinder of pink bath salt. Imagine a team of three miners shaving minerals off giant pink stalagmites in a prehistoric cave, surrounded by air no one else has breathed.

Look for sublets in Vermont, Madrid, Hong Kong. Buy the first deodorant you ever wore. Buy fruits you haven’t tried. Slip and slice open your finger instead of a coconut. Find a cheap flight to Florida and book a three-day vacation. Try to pay for earplugs at the airport newsstand. The woman behind the counter asks to see your photo ID. She says, squinting more at you then your driver’s license, “This doesn’t look like you.” TC mark

dilluns, 25 d’abril del 2011

Encara no m'ho crec
i ja torn a ser a un satèl·lit
que fa voltes en línia recta.

T'has fet desaparèixer
i jo he perdut sa corba
i s'anestèsia, i he plorat.

Necessit un centre de gravetat,
necessit un atles d'espirals
que me dugui a conèixer i a tancar
una fonoteca d'auriculars.

I que sonin tots es motors
d'impossibles aviadors,
que te duguin a comprovar
que es teus somnis són africans.

Mos estimàvem,
mos destrossàvem mútuament ses vides,
mos acabàvem, mos fèiem companyia,
mos caducàvem, mos dedicàvem
quasi sempre es dies,
mos sexuàvem, mos gastronomíem.

Encara no m'ho crec
i ja torn a ser a un satèl·lit
que fa voltes en línia recta.

T'has fet desaparèixer
i jo he perdut sa corba
i s'anestèsia, i he plorat.

Que s'encenguin es aspersors,
que mos reguin tots es codonys,
que no sé si s'han de regar,
perquè jo som més de la mar.

Mos estimàvem,
mos destrossàvem mútuament ses vides,
mos acabàvem, mos fèiem companyia,
mos caducàvem, mos dedicàvem
quasi sempre es dies,
mos sexuàvem, mos gastronomíem.

I que sonin tots es motors
d'impossibles aviadors,
que te duguin a comprovar
que es teus somnis són africans.

Mos estimàvem,
mos destrossàvem mútuament ses vides,
mos acabàvem, mos fèiem companyia,
mos caducàvem, mos dedicàvem
quasi sempre es dies,
mos sexuàvem, mos gastronomíem.

Mos estimàvem,
mos destrossàvem mútuament ses vides,
mos acabàvem, mos fèiem companyia,
mos caducàvem, mos dedicàvem
quasi sempre es dies,
mos sexuàvem, mos gastronomíem.

dissabte, 23 d’abril del 2011

But what do they do with their legs?

Julia Sweeney considered herself an enlightened, sex-is-no-big-deal kind of parent. But that was before an innocent question about tadpoles prompted The Conversation

Julia Sweeney The Guardian,

'I thought I’d have more time between frogs and same-sex intercourse than just an hour or two. I was out of my depth.' Photograph: Corbis

    One evening, on a school night, when my daughter Mulan was nine, we were eating dinner together at our favourite Thai restaurant. It was autumn, over two years ago, and writing about it now I see that Mulan and I interacted much like two roommates. We ate out a lot. We had a handful of favourite places. When you're a single mother who primarily takes her daughter to dinner at restaurants (my meagre defence: I was spending four days a week driving her to gymnastics after school – 45 minutes each way – so, who had time to cook?), it's easy to think of yourselves as a couple. You eat, you talk, and sometimes you just stare at each other in a stupor of familiarity.

    At the restaurant, we know the owner and chef, who this night recommended the frogs' legs in hot peppers. We politely declined. Mulan told me her class had begun studying frogs. In fact, she revealed she had a report to do, and began to explain the basic parameters: "So, Mum. First, the frogs lay eggs, in a pond, and then the eggs turn into tadpoles and the tadpoles turn into more frogs."

    I squinted my eyes. Biology – and science in general – was not my academic strong suit. Only recently had I discovered my own deep, neglected interest in science, and had been scrambling to catch up with the 21st century. Whenever Mulan told me of anything she was learning about science, I'm sure I wore an expression of astonished bewilderment and surprise. My 12 years of Catholic schooling did not dwell long on biology (God didn't want us thinking about that) and avoided the subject of reproduction almost entirely.

    Eventually I mumbled a response: "Uh… yeah. I think so. I think, though, that it's probably just the females that lay the eggs, and then the males fertilise them – although I don't know for sure – and there are probably all kinds of species of frogs with different ways of doing things. But yeah, in general, I'm willing to bet, the females are the ones with the eggs. Or something like that."

    "Huh?" Mulan said, listening carefully. "But, what does 'fertilise' mean?"

    I said, "Oh, the males have this substance inside them, and it's like a co-ingredient, called sperm. They sprinkle, or squirt it on the eggs. That's how they get fertilised. It takes both the female's eggs and the male's sperm, and together they make the new tadpoles." I was really proud of myself for the word "co-ingredient". That was good.

    "Soooooo, only the females have the eggs." Mulan said, her eyes wandering to the ceiling, taking this all in.

    "Yes," I said.

    "Humans, too?" she asked.

    Let me freeze this scene for a moment and say that I considered myself an enlightened, open-minded, sex-is–no-big-deal parent, yet I hadn't truly prepared myself for this conversation. I had read a few parenting books and they all seemed to advise the same thing, which was, when your child starts to ask you about sex, or really anything that is complicated and multifaceted, just answer the exact question they ask. Nothing more. Don't elaborate. Don't over-share.

    In that sense, I suppose I was prepared for this crucial rite-of-passage. I wasn't going to stop and take her hand, get all watery-eyed and explain about the beautiful way we create more children in the world. That wasn't what she was asking. She just wanted to know if human women had the eggs. The answer was clear and unambiguous.

    "Yes," I said. I deliberately forced a pause. I tried to think of some other subject to move on to. I took a big bite of the mango salad we'd just been served.

    Mulan asked, "Where do women keep their eggs?"

    "Well," I said, "we women have evolved to have our own pond, right inside our own bodies. We lay our eggs in this pond, which is so convenient when you think about it compared with frogs, because we don't have to worry about any competing eggs. It's a pond of our own."

    A pond of one's own. I imagined Virginia Woolf contentedly sitting in a pond of her own. And then drowning.

    "Where is it?" Mulan asked, her eyes bigger than ever.

    "It's in our lower abdomen, inside us, below our belly button, above our vagina." I had managed to be specific and totally vague all at once. Perfect.

    "But… how do the eggs get fertilised?"

    "By the man," I said, thinking why did I use the phrase "the man"? Aside from its conformist big-business connotations, I had possibly implied that there was only one man, some special Man who was used only for this purpose. Creepy and weird. And, of course, incorrect.

    Thankfully, at this moment the rest of the food was delivered. I scooped up some green beans with chilli and hoped the subject would change. I realised my eyes were darting around, which reminded me of my own mother. I hated how awkward and embarrassed and offputting my mother became about the subject of sex. Now my own body was displaying the same indications of unease. I took a deep breath and smiled in a deliberately relaxed way at Mulan.

    "But how does the sperm get in to fertilise the eggs?" she asked.

    I said, "Oh, yes. That. Well, the sperm comes out of the man's penis and it goes into the woman's vagina. This happens when the two do what's called, 'have sex'. And that's where the egg – there's usually only one in the woman's pond at a time – gets fertilised." Only after the fact did I realise that I had said the words penis and vagina and sex in a strained, sotto voce tone. This was also something my own mother would have done. Self-hate swelled in my breast.

    Mulan had put down her fork. Her face was twisted in disgust. "That's where humans make a baby, where you go to the bathroom? Mum!!" Her voice was rising.

    "Yes," I said, looking around conspiratorially. "I know," I sighed. "It is weird. That part can take some getting used to."

    "Gross." Mulan mumbled.

    "Yeah, I know. As they say, it's like having a waste treatment plant right next to an amusement park. Terrible town planning."

    "What?" Mulan said.

    "The thing is," I went on, "that's how we evolved. That's where it all happens. And even though going to the bathroom and having sex are both in the general same area, they are actually totally separate." I wanted to add, "Except for some people, where psychologically it gets all mushed together, which is creepy in my opinion but certainly not morally wrong, and is actually understandable given the proximity." But that seemed to be getting ahead of the conversation, so I tried to change the direction slightly.

    "Like your nose and your mouth," I ventured. "They're both close to each other on your face, but you wouldn't stick a bean sprout up your nose." Mulan gave me a pathetic lower-teeth-revealing smile and grunted a charity chuckle. Then she got back to the topic at hand.

    "But Mum," Mulan asked with tractor-beam focus, "how can this ever happen? I mean, men and women, they can never be naked together."

    "Well," I explained, "when people are older – much, much older than a kid – when they are older and they both decide they want to, in very certain circumstances, like if they're in love with each other, well, then, they can be naked together."

    "But how do they know when?" Mulan asked. "Does the man say, 'Is now the time to take off my pants?'"

    We held each other's gaze for a moment.

    "Yes," I said. "That's exactly what they say."

    To my great relief Mulan seemed content with that knowledge and began to eat with gusto. We moved on to other topics of conversation.

    As we drove home Mulan seemed unusually quiet. I glanced at her from time to time in my rear-view mirror. She was sitting in the back seat, staring out of the window. The pavements were filled with people.

    Suddenly Mulan laughed.

    "What?" I asked.

    "Oh Mum, you're going to laugh so hard."

    "Why?"

    "Because, Mum, you can't believe what I thought you said back at the restaurant. It's so funny. I thought you said that the man puts his penis in a woman's vagina – inside of it – and that's how people make a baby. Isn't that hysterical?"

    A pause.

    "That is what I said," I said.

    "Oh," Mulan said. Her face had turned from gaiety to seriousness. There was a long quiet time. She stared out of the window, taking all this in.

    Mulan asked, "What if two people just walked up to each other on the street and started doing it?" Our eyes met in the mirror. Her eyebrows were furrowed and she broke our gaze and looked at some people standing on the street.

    At this point, I decided the best way to approach these questions was to pretend I was some dispassionate anthropologist discussing the mating habits of an animal other than our own. "The human species is very private when it comes to sex. Humans are unusual in this way. They have sex in private."

    Mulan asked, "What if you went to a party and there were a bunch of men and women and they all just started doing it? Would that ever happen?"

    "No," I lied. "That would never happen. Because humans are so private."

    My back stiffened. I realised it stiffened like my grandmother's, my mother's mother. I was reaching back, farther back than my own mother's discomfort and into the graves of the next generation of discomfort. The dead live.

    "Mum," Mulan said gravely, "have you ever done this?"

    "Yes," I said, flatly.

    "But Mum, you can't have children."

    "That's true," I said.

    "Well, you never have to do that again," Mulan sighed. She sounded relieved.

    After a moment I said, "Well, if you really love someone and you're an adult, then you want to do it, even if you can't have a baby."

    Silence. Mulan stared out of the window deep in thought. "But Mum, how can people do that? I mean, how do their legs go? You know, not everyone can do the splits."

    Ah, the perspective of the proud gymnast. Mulan became somewhat fixated on the role of legs in sex. She could not picture how it was physically possible, even if someone could do the splits. Finally, I said, "Mulan, people figure the legs out. They just do."

    "Oh," Mulan said, taking this in. She quieted down and we got home. When we got out of the car, our cat Val was sitting in the front garden soaking up the last bits of sunlight. Val rolled on to her back.

    "What about cats? How do they do it?"

    "It's basically the same idea," I said.

    "But how do their legs go?" Mulan wondered.

    "They, well, I think the male stands behind the female and… and… they just do, Mulan," I said, exasperated, and disappointed that "They just do" was the best I could do.

    Once inside the house, our dog Arden, delirious with glee at our return, jumped up and licked my hand. "What about dogs?" Mulan asked, having never considered the possibility before.

    "Same thing," I said. "It's basically the same thing for all mammals."

    "But what about their legs?" she asked again.

    "Look," I said, now desperately tired of this subject, "I've lost my ability to describe it. Maybe we can look on Wikipedia or something and it will show us."

    So, we went to my office and got online. I Googled "cats mating". And, of course, on YouTube there were thousands of videos. We watched a couple of them. Mulan was riveted. She moved her face closer and closer to the monitor.

    "Now what about dogs?" she asked. We watched a few dog videos. She put her hand on my arm.

    Here, dear reader, we come to another moment out of time. Such as when you're in an accident and time slows to a crawl. I could hear my own breathing as if I were suddenly wearing a space suit from 2001: A Space Odyssey. Mulan's hand seemed to be reaching out to my arm in slow motion: frame-by-frame. I believe I remember it this way because it wasn't until then, until this small intimate gesture, this gesture of familiarity and of safety, that I realised where I'd led us.

    "Mum, do you think there would be any videos of humans mating on the internet?"

    I am a monster. An incompetent monster of a mother.

    I smiled and said, firmly, "No. There would never be anything like that. Because humans are so private." And then, "Hey, how about some ice-cream?"

    Which, of course, was teaching her that when questions about sex got awkward, food was truly the answer.

    Later that night, Mulan asked, "What about Roger and Don – how do they do it?"

    "I… I don't know," I said.

    All right, I was thrown. I thought I would have more time between frogs and same-sex intercourse than just an hour or two. I was out of my depth.

    Mulan went to the bathroom and took a little longer than usual to come out. Later she said, casually, "I think I know how Roger and Don do it."

    "Oh yeah?" I said.

    "Yeah, Mum, there's another hole down there, where you also go to the bathroom. Maybe… you know, maybe they use that."

    That's my girl, my Mulan, age nine, inventing anal sex. Smart, inquisitive, problem-solving, Spock-like in objectivity and with a total lack of squeamishness. Bless her heart.

    "Maybe," I answered, and shrugged my shoulders to indicate: see how casual and easygoing I am?

    "But Mum," she said, "what about two girls? What about Eileen and Karen, how do they do it?"

    "I... I…" I answered meekly, beaten.

    "Why don't you call Karen and ask her?" Mulan asked me.

    "Nah," I said, pretending to read the newspaper.

    Mulan put her face a few inches from mine. She looked disgusted with me. "Mum, aren't you even curious?"

divendres, 22 d’abril del 2011

Tao Lin teaches me



http://www.alphadecay.org/system/files/1007/original/En_la_juventud_-_La_Nueva_Espa%C3%B1a_17_de_febrero_2011.pdf?1297951127

http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/how-to-give-a-reading-on-mushrooms/

dijous, 21 d’abril del 2011

Bill Callahan: Tiny Desk Concert

http://www.observer.com/2011/culture/does-novel-have-future-answer-essay

De "Jim Cain": Solia ser més fosc / Després em vaig tornar més clar / Després em vaig enfosquir altre cop.

De "Rococo Zephyr": "Solia estar una mica cec / Però ara hi puc veure una mica."

De "Too Many Birds": "Si poguessis parar els batecs per un sol batec..."

dilluns, 18 d’abril del 2011

Roald Dahl helps me clear my head.

GOD I'm such a BIG BIG BIG mouth. And Im so sorry. For everything. Text messages, infortunate assumptions, the intensive discurse. the commentaries. The judgements. Ah, THIS feels just bad. You UGLY, YOU UGLY.
No chance of righting a wrong.
I should be hopeless, its like banging my head against the wall. God Im such a knob. And Im soooo retarded. Dont really know why Im so difficult sometimes. I just like it, i guess. Or I just like pushing away everyone. Maybe its that.

Roald Dahl says Nunc Dimittis.

Herodote says your mood will be your destiny. Fuck, then.

(fcuck, am app,urb outf.)

dimecres, 13 d’abril del 2011

"I read because it is the healthiest and most inexpensive way of temporarily escaping the awfulness of being myself, and with every book a tiny bit more of me is changed, I hope, for the better."


{
Ani Smith is an American writer living in London. Her chapbook, this love is office lighting (great and harsh but always off when no one’s there), is forthcoming from Mud Luscious Press. She co-edits We Who Are About To Die.}

dilluns, 11 d’abril del 2011

10 types of men to avoid

The fanatic
It doesn't matter whether it's football or flower arranging, the fanatical man is unlikely to put you first (or second, for that matter). Unless your obsession matches his, don't get involved or you'll be in for long periods of waiting.
The emotional blackmailer
Mr Emotional Blackmail is tricky to spot because he will often seem like the perfect gent… at first. But beware ladies – once you're trapped in his web, this charming man can quickly turn clingy and controlling and before you know it you'll have to 'prove' you love him... by never leaving his side.
The mummy's boy
Woe betide those who fall for a mummy's boy. He's more than likely still living at home and relies on his mother for his washing, cooking and emotional wellbeing. Even if you can prise him away from the family home, you'll need a samurai sword to sever those apron strings – and he'll always choose her side over yours.
The slob
The slob won't make himself known straight away, but if you end up back at his place and there are mouldy plates and half-eaten pizza lying around, just turn around and leave. It's a short hop from helping him tidy his flat to washing his dirty laundry (of which there will undoubtedly be plenty).
The ladies' man
It's the age-old mistake that so many have made before – believing you can change him. Just remember that as quickly and utterly as you fell for the lothario's wily charms, so too will many more after you… and probably before you've even
parted company.
The workaholic
If all you want from your man is the money and possessions that come from seven-day-weeks and 18-hour-days, then be our guest and ensnare a workaholic. But if you crave family life, romantic holidays or cosy nights in, you'll be sorely disappointed. Strictly for the material girl.
The narcissist
We'd all like to imagine ourselves with a Brad Pitt or a Johnny Depp, but the reality of the pretty boy isn't quite so much fun. Not only will the narcissist spend hours primping and preening his perfect hair and skin (making you feel like a positive minger), you'll have to stop every few yards so that he can check his reflection.
The bully
Bullies don't necessarily come out with fists flying (though that particular type deserves the attention of the local law enforcement). From incessant sarcasm to verbal abuse and threats, emotional bullying can be devastating. Banish the bully before his bulls**t does some harm.
The egotist
There's nothing wrong with a bit of confidence but the egotistical man, much like his female counterpart, is no fun to be around. His constant need to remind everybody of past glories and general sense of superiority will have you reaching for the hard liquor on a nightly basis
The damaged man
We've all got baggage, that's a given. But fall for this guy and you'll be dragged down into his ever-deepening spiral of self-loathing and misery. Whatever tragedy has befallen him, he refuses to move on – you, on the other hand, should.

divendres, 8 d’abril del 2011

when did this begin to be a trilingual blog, man?

-Vente a casa! Sol, cafe, sofa y musica.
-me siento rara y muy confusa. creo que todo lo que me pasa por la cabeza te lo podria explicar si cierro los ojos, me echo e tu jardin y sostengo en mi mano una lata de cerveza, mientras el sol me da en la cara. como no lo puuedo hacer por culpa del puto essay Q POR MIS COJONES/OVARIOS VOY A ACABAR ESTE FINDE, solo puedo decirte q quiero disfrutar del placer de estar en tu jardin contigo AHORA pero no me lo merezco por mala, por gandula. asi q este es mi castigo. si, creo en la justicia poetica. pienso que ese y yo no tenemos futuro (des de cuando me importa eso A MI?). pienso en mis padres y como me dan la tabarra. pienso en q no me quedan mas huevos q plantarme delante de advice&counselling y pedir una cita al cabezólogo. y da miedo y palo. necesito ducharme. ser persona. comprar un regalo. ir al banco y a correos. ver exposiciones y hacer cosas. pero estoy aqui intentando escribir, y maldita sea, me parece q le estoy dando a este mensaje un punto lirico-gilipollesco q hace q parezca mas bonito, profundo y triste de lo que realmente es. asi en plan dramatico, dantesco, decadente. coño, hoy tengo un dia patetico.
oye, q tal si disfrutas tu por las dos, porfa? :)

Shudder

The voice is biological, folklorical and culturally nasal. There is neither effort nor attittude in expressing her vigorous convictions through her nose, with a bright smile and an orgasm-like face everytime she announces that in this dying country another half million of poor devils joined the unemployment wages, verifying in a distanced long shot and in a conscious and intense close-up the indignation felt by the nice right winged people confronting the politics of this half-stupid Hamlet (is anyone who is suffering the anxiety of me, he or she being unemployed, if those kids for whom a future was searched are going to be everlasting parasites, interested in Zapatero's decision to stand for or retire?) that survive comfortably thanks to the heroic mattress provided by their families.

The lady I'm talking about is called Ana Samboal. She has the surrealist nerve of denominating her nasty pamphlet something informative. She does not look like a converted, but like someone who has always absorbed the slogans imposed by her boss, that disgusting thing called Esperanza Aguirre. She also recites without any decency, with ardorous accent, the pathetic officila gazette (BOE). She does it much better than that staggering, histerical, unbearable, grotesque fellow, called Hermann Tertsch; una caricatura excesiva del nazi enloquecido que no tuvo más remedio en su filosófica existencia que acabar en agradecida nómina de ese cutrerío fachoso del que su pensamiento liberal tanto abominaba, pero que finalmente encontró la luz redentora. Y admito que entre los corresponsales de TVE hay abundancia de idiotas cuya capacidad expresiva se mueve entre lo ágrafo y lo analfabeto, todo ellos imagino en posesión de carné sociata, gente ante la que te planteas por qué no siembran patatas en su agradecido pueblo en vez de ser analistas de la rabiosa actualidad.

And you consider, despite the current mediocrity, the danger in which we are with the imminent triumph of the dragons, of this usual dandruff-covered fascism. Not the triumph of this Right which appears to be well-educated, well-mannered, polite: the Right of Sarzoky, Merkel, PNV, Convergencia -but the usual beast-like one. Fed, of course, by extreme left-wing thinkers who found out how well they could do in a well-paying, illiterate, argument-orphan Right.

Carlos Boyero, ElPais.com

dimecres, 6 d’abril del 2011

neglecting

On the night of the 3th of April, Alice reached the rock bottom and stated her misery, her flawless uninterest and her uncapability for loving people in front of two old people who did love her but did not understand her, and who never tried to be in her shoes. Three nights after, about at the same hour, she wrote part of her thoughts on a wild, dark cold screen, remembering a whisper "i'm a cold hearted bitch. I can" and an inner twitch of pain, desire, loneliness and loathness bursting from her. She sighed. Continued devouring rich tea fingers. Feeling like the cookie monster. Regardless of her innermost dramas and tears, the lost girl, who was not cute at all, decided to fuck off the classes, the job and the essay and to screw up everything, and to go to sleep. To sleep tie. She brushed her palate roof, took off her only earring and wrapped herself up luxuriously with an IKEA duvet filled up with flowers and a known smell.

dijous, 31 de març del 2011

apa

-see as i said im amazing, I can come up with those gems and not even give a fuck about the topic
the art of intelligence
i didnt word it very well
but you got hte gist
-thats because i am as clever if not more as you are
-lol
id beg to differ
knowing about words isnt intelligence, its not real
you can work a fantasy with words
but it doesnt mean anything real
Intelligence
is about real things
and im not sure how you can say you are more intelligent than I am from what i just said, it in no way shows or intimates you have any kind of edge lol
-do you always diminish girls or just the catalan ones?
-diminish isnt the right word
What has it got to do with girls?
because you say things
that
either you mean or you dont mean
such as
that is actually
...
clever
which intimates your being sarcastic or your surprised that i could say something intelligent
which is an arrogant thin to say
so when you say things that are looking to irritate
expect me to respond
in kind
-i wasnt looking to irritate you
i was really thinking about what you said
i just felt a twitch of jealousy for not coming with something like that myself
but
no, listen
you know what?
you've got an art
you've got a real art
-for being a prick?
-to drive conversations to a really annoying point
and for being a prick too, yeh
-well im glad you think that.
you have an art for pissing me off
-LOL
we can have so much fun
-You dont understand how you come across on facebook or perhaps in person, and then suggest its my fault for misinterpreting you. But im quite an understanding kind of person and I have very high tolerance thresholds. If you cannot back something up with a decent argument as to why you said it, and justify yourself, you should expect what you say to be challenged.
-yes, master
-you try to antagonise me and then wonder why im antagonised
if you cant be bothered to make a decent conversation with me, dont.
...
i just get the impression you dont like being challenged very much and you think that its me being oversensitive and not you saying things that will be misconstrued.
I think you mean that I drive conversations to deeper things. Such as, looking for the meaning behind the sentence rather than just the sentence itself.
And I dont let things drop if Im not satisified with an answer
-yeh, i can see that
-and you dont like being challenged. you talk all about how you get bored, but, if you get bored because you dont like being challenged then, maybe thats something else.
but the fact of the matter is, I have always been someone who challenges and searches and asks questions.
because I cant stand people who are fake and talk bullshit. So i work out quite early on when someone says something if it is quite that.

dimarts, 22 de març del 2011

You

http://www.goear.com/listen/5180db2/tu-enric-casasses-i-manel-puges

If you were a wave you'd be my favourite game
if you'd love me forever, you'd be plenitude
if you were a talkin way you'd be a dialogue
if you'd worriedly cry I'd look for you but wouldn't find you
if you were a sunset, you'd be the most beautiful of them all
if you were a tree, you'd be a cedar
if you'd show colours, you'd be red and white
if you were the snow, you'd go away
if you were a substance, you'd be the balsam
if you were substituted you'd be the wood in a column
if I were a ship I'd wear you right in front of the bow
if you were'nt a girl, you'd be a forest rose
if you were an invisible star, you'd be mutual love
if you'd gently circumdate me and then dissolve you'd be the dew of the night moisturizing the trees
if you'd faint you'd be a broken shield
if you were a flower you'd never go off
if you'd lightninged you'd resemble a pulled down stone coloured with the flux of the sea
if I'd spot you anywhere, I'd point at you
if you were indifferent you'd be the twilight
if you'd look discreetly at me, you'd be my hope
your presence seems to me the pleasantest form of true harmony
if music filled up with you I'd cry a deep and pitiful chord
if you were a clover you'd be the key to daybreak
if you were the softness you'd be the weight of water
if you were the sadness you'd be the days and the time
if you were a desire you'd be collapsed passion
if you were the moon, you'd be a wing
if you were a clock you'd be a deep circle
if you were the space you'd be the half and the center
if you weren't a favorable star, you'd be a rock defending the territory
if you'd hide from me for ever you'd be the circumdant night
if you were a path you'd be the seashore
if you were a garden you'd be a flowered star
if you were a landscape you'd be a breathing forest
if you were a ring, you'd be forever unbreakable
if you were a dense shadow you'd be a path between clear stars
if you were an afternoon you'd be a day
if you were a year you'd be a century
if you were a noise, you'd be the sound of secretly resounding swords
if you were a pedestal you'd be a blueish island
if the world was broken to pieces you'd be it's silence
if you'd lean your forehead your heart would clearly jingle
if you sigh, the running time becomes sweet
if you climb onto the sky, in meditation I find you
if you were a small ball, you'd be a single water drop
you live in the sense of flame, not in ashes
if you were a number, you'd be an unfinished quantity
if you'd change your form you'd be a dark and agreeable mountain
if you were the breeze, you'd sleep over a coloured tail
if the rain knew you, it would fall where you'd indicate
if you tried to save someone, you'd cover him with spikes,
if you were a wall, the trees would shield you
if the light went off, you'd be an everyday's drink
if you'd cover the youth if you were the early morning
if the autumn left, you'd be the imminent spring
if you were a colour, you'd be the sun's joy on a grass tuft
if you were a voice you'd have the colour of a parfum
if you were a parfum you'd had the voice of the colour that weared you
if you were a glass you'd put off the sighs
if you were a desert, you'd wave with no limits
if you were a word, you'd be "to love"
if you were an igloo, I'd prepare your long-lasting sanctuary
if you were warm light, you'd wrap yourself up in flocks
if you were a blood drop, you'd light
if the living world was all loneliness and chaos you'd be fated to manifest
if the world were a cloudy cavern, infinitudes would converge in you

you are the most beautiful reflex of the prime image inexpressibly multiplying along the times

Enric Casasses

diumenge, 20 de març del 2011

Prefaci a l'edició alemanya de 1883

El pensament bàsic del Manifesto -que la producció econòmica i l'estructura de la societat que s'erigeix necessàriament en cada època històrica constitueixen els fonaments de la història política i intel·lectual d'aquella època; que conseqüentment (des de la dissolució de la primigènia possessió comunitària de la terra) tota la història ha estat una història de lluita de classes, de lluite entre explotats i explotadors, entre dominats i classes dominants a diversos nivells de desenvolupament social; que emperò aquesta lluita ara ha arribat a un nivell on la classe explotada i oprimida (el proletariat) ja no pot emancipar-se de la classe que l'explota i l'oprimeix (la burgesia), sense alliberar al mateix temps i per sempre la societat sencera de l'explotació, opressió i lluites de classes - aquest pensament bàsic pertany solament i exclusiva a Marx. Aquesta proposició en la meva opinió està destinada a fer per la història el que la teoria de Darwin va fer per la biologia.

F. Engels



Edició alemanya de 1872

"Per molt que l'estat de les coses s'hagi alterat durant els últims vint-i-cinc anys, els principis generals exposats en aquest Manifest són, en general, tant correctes avui en dia com sempre. Aquí i allà es podrien millorar alguns detalls. L'aplicació pràctica dels principis dependrà, tal com afirma el Manifesto, qualsevol lloc i sempre, en les condicions històriques existents en aquell temps, i, per aquesta raó, no s'ha fet una emfàsi especial en les mesures revolucionàries proposades al final de la Secció 2. Aquest passatge podria, en molts respectes, ser escrit molt diferentment avui en dia. Veient les passes gegants de la Indústria Moderna des de 1848, i les millores i ampliacions que acompanyen les organitzacions de la classe obrera, veient l'experiència pràctica guanyada, primer des de la Revolució de Febrer, i després encara més, a la Comuna de París, on el proletariat va tenir per primer cop poder polític durant dos mesos sencers, aquest programa té alguns detalls antiquats. Una cosa fou especialment provada per la Comuna, que "la classe obrera no pot simplement apropiar-se de la maquinària preparada per l'Estat, i esgrimir-la per als seus propis propòsits."

Mile End

No teníem cap lloc per viure,
No teníem cap lloc on anar
fins que algú va dir
"Conec aquell lloc de Burdett Road."
Era al quinzé pis,
tenia una barra a través de la porta.
Ens va costar una hora
arrencar-la fent palanca i entrar-hi.
Feia olor com de mort;
el menjador estava ple de mosques,
la pica de la cuina estava embossada,
la del lavabo no hi era.

Ooh, és un desatre, d'acord,
sí, és
Mile End.

I ara vivim al cel
no em pensava que viuria tan penjat,
com si fos el Cel,
si no semblés l'infern.
L'ascensor està sempre ple de pixums,
el replà del cinquè pis put a peix
no només els divendres,
cada altre dia.
A sota els nens surten a la nit,
xuten una pilota i s'esbarallen
i potser disparen a algú si perden al billar.

Ooh, és un desàstre, cert,
sí, és
Mile End.

Ningú vol ser el teu amic
perquè no ets de per aquí, ooh
Com si això fos quelcom per estar-ne orgullós.
El rei llardós de l'Isle of Dogs
toqueteja als nens als vàters.
Allà als camps d'esports, algú incendia un cotxe
Suposo que has d'enfonsarte fins al fons
abans d'entendre com de baix,
com de baix,
com de baix pot caure una persona.

Ooh, és un desastre bé,
sí és
Mile End.

Pulp – Mile End Pulp – Mile End

divendres, 18 de març del 2011

Eva

You say you don't know wether you want to continue playing. that you're showing your cards but I am not and this is so off-putting. You say you're losing interest. And I, unaware of any ingenie de l'ecalière, don't come with the right words: "which game?" "have you only been playing until now?" "interested in what, exaclty? say it". No. The only thing I can do, with my heart twitching and pounding and my hands sweating, is to apologize and say I'm sorry and say it's just the way I am, and I am twisted and I told you there's something wrong with me and I am sorry.

Fuck off. (yeah, why not?)

And you repeat I've got issues. What do you mean, by the way? Every time you see anything wrong with me you say I've got issues. Like what, like your suicidal maniac exgirlfriend? No thankyou. Not quite like that. Twisted, yes. Awkard, yes. Arrogant, perhaps. But not that I have "issues". And you just go and spit out "oh you've missed me. I can tell that". Excuse me? You can tell what, exactly? What, X? I don't give a damn about what you think. I mean, it's all up to you. I was nervous, true. Leading the talk, true. Fast-pounding chest, true. But you don't know any of what I've been through. And thats what pisses me off mostly. Yup. Because for you its only
(and as simple as) about missing you. But you can't realize calm waters run deeper, and I can't tell you. I simply won't on a white screen, not apologizing for that. And your arrogance. You, conceited prick. Your self-esteem raised over the top with that, innit? Sadly enough, I feel inconsistently unable to tell you the -thing?-.
God that's so utterly lame. The sleepless nights. So many of them. Nights of waiting for an answer. Followed by nights waiting for any kind of date or hanging around. Days of empty inboxes. More nights without answers. Smiles and "yeah, tomorrow". For sure. Such a dickhead I am. Followed by nights of waiting for a hello. That was the largest part. Still waiting anyway. But now, just waiting for a showing up, for a "uh, he's alive" relief. Idiot self-esteemless. Can't go through this again. Not once more, please. Not twice in this fucking shit-hole (thankyou). Not twice in this fucking country. Whatever is wrong with you, just spit it out, just say it. I can't take more silences and hopes and fears. that Is insane. And killing. Literally soul-ripping. Not anymore, please. If you don't show up, I'll go thinking you just got tired. And it's fair enough, but, tell me, is it too much to ask for an explanation, for an "not anymore, i met someone else"?? What the hell, I reckon you, no, not, everyone, all of them, thought I was about to make a pissoff. To make a drama of it. Is that the reason why anyone never tells me anything? Can't believe it!!
I don't understand why on earth do I look so drama queen-like. No, really. Kind of funny if it weren't happening to me, actually. yeh. Well, just for the record, I won't be acting like desperate, or menacing to kill myself. Like others, huh? (wink wink) Nah. Not my style. Though as never anyone really gave me the opportunity to be in such a situation, can't be 100% sure. But anyway I'm sure on a 99% . It's enough for me, if it's not for you then it's your problem.
Besides, why would I expect anything else? Or anything more? I don't, I swear. No need for a Charming prince. I am much aware of the current situation (ours?) which means that I won't be demanding more of it. No factible. Almost impossible. Those are facts. So no need to scare out about my expectations regarding this. And no need for you to think I'm so deeply into you. Noooo, please, please. You've got a lot of faults, by the way. Did you ever notice it , or ever came across any of them? I hate you sometimes. The more I shut, the more you talk. Oh, that one is good too: missing what exaclty, by the way? missing you? what does that mean, exactly? did you ever go off? go out? because i just saw you like always. you were there. you weren't talking to me or paying attention or FB-liking. but you were definitely there. I kew it, you knew it. I don't know your reasons or leitmotifs. You know them. Frankly, I don't care at all about it now. Time has past. Not curious. One of your highest mistakes, and for which, I tell you, as much as I'd like to, I will never ever be able to forgive you, is how hard you pushed me that time. you made me sick, you made me hurl all that crap about me, about me doing drugs, about me nailing others, and your intrinsic interest on my numbers. What for? I don't give a shit for all those answers. They re not really important. There is nothing in my answers you will be able to use to understand me better or to make you decide if I am worth some time spending or not. And it's a great error to think you can decide thinks like that just basing on the answers -true or not, can't prove any of it- I tell you. Fuck you for that. It was outrageous, and you were only blackmailing me, and I don't even know what was I about to loose if I did not... if perhaps I had already lost it before. Most probably I did loose it before.
I'm tired of it. I'm tired of thinking about this. I'm tired of so much misery. I am a wasted land, as simple as that. And I am tired of thinking about all that stuff throughout sleepless nights whilst I am so utterly uncapable of telling you -wether on a screen or meeting your eyes-.
Screw you.

Screw you, screw you, screw you. Goodnight. You deserve a small part of my suffering. A tenth percent of it at least.

dimecres, 16 de març del 2011

1, 2, 3, shadow

when I feel bad...
...I think about you

when I feel bad · . . . .
· . ... I think about the image you've got of me



whenever you see who am I . . .
. . . please, please, don't tell me



(as I don't tell you
)

Standstill

dijous, 10 de març del 2011

Farcit (2/2)

A que no t'enfiles en aquella branca d'allà dalt, anem a columpiar-nos, sabies que l'espadanya es pot fumar, fem servir les teules per construir una casa a l'aigua, he trobat un cartutx de bales, jo també, columpiem-nos, si poses un tauló sobre el pneumàtic tindràs un rai, has de fer servir flor de saüc per fer una pipa, són buides per dins, m'ho ha dit el jardiner, anem al Park de Liedtke, és tot salvatge i hi creixen pomes que no són de ningú, gronxem-nos, vine aquí, que t'empenyo, com de fons pots bussejar, la meva barca té un timó fet de metall, fem que l'habitació sigui des d'aquí al coixí fins a la manta, gronxem-nos, pots pujar sense mans, sabies que aquell nen Daniel va pujar a l'ampit i va pixar fora de la finestra, oh no, el meu rem ha caigut a l'aigua, dóna'm un petó.

[...]

Pots trencar les avellanes amb una pedra que pesi, encara estàn blanques per dins, anem a gronxar-nos, puc anar pel voltant del toll amb la roda de davant cap a l'esquerra i la de darrere cap a la dreta, inventem-nos un llenguatge secret, fer petons s'hauria de dir refilar, no en sèrio, anem a columpiar-nos, no pots parlar mentre pesques, estreny la fulla de lilàs tota plana entre les mans, així és com fa el millor xiulet, m'ho ha dit el jardiner, gronxem-nos, vine aquí, enterrarem el talp sota d'aquest abre d'aquí mateix, et pots menjar els cors dels sarronets de pastor, anem a amagar-nos a sota de l'avet, dóna'm un-Jo també vull un refilet, jo també.

Visitations, Jenny Erpenbeck (p. 124- 126)

Farcit (1/2)

"Perhaps eternal life already exists during a human lifetime, but since it looks different from what we're hoping for -something that trascends everything that's ever happened- since it looks instead like the old life we already knew, no one recognizes it."

Jenny Erpenbeck, Heimsuchung (Visitation) (traducció de la traducció)

ÉEEEs que l'Alícia no té ganes de parlar d'ella mateixa.