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.

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.