No he podido resistirme a copiarlo - genial y además me nombra

 TIMOTHYMCSWEENEY

secretly raked your side of the yard.

Literary Genre Translations.

BY Cirocco Dunlap

-Original Text-

“I ate a sandwich and looked out the window.”

-Sci-Fi-

“I placed the allotted nutrition capsules on my tongue bed and looked to the Nahin VI-8373 space podhole.”

-Fantasy-

“My dragon, Ralfarus, and I, Genflowfla’ii, choked down the hardened cheese curd and two-part-moons-old bread as we peered out of the meeting cavern.”

-19th-Century British Romance-

“Being but a governess with no prospects but a fierce wit and a quick temper which is out of mode, I nibbled a soda biscuit and looked off into the glade, awaiting my dear friend—whom I surely could not come to love—Mr. Wadswortherton.”

-Young Adult-

“I gagged on rancid human food and instead drank the gushing blood of a rat as my night-kind are wont to do with our pointed toothbones. I gazed longingly out of my coffin into the human world where my true lovemate lived (how mortal!) and breathed (MORTALER YET!). The Lofty Council would never allow our soul union.”

-Choose Your Own Adventure-

“You eat a sandwich. You are then compelled to do something so you:
- LOOK OUT THE WINDOW AND REFLECT (Turn to Page 65).
- WALK OUTSIDE INTO A DARK CAVE WITH PIRHANAS AND SNAKES (Turn to Page 27).
- DRINK FROM A BOTTLE MARKED POISON AND TAKE A NAP (Turn to Page 27)."

-Erotica-

“I nakedly slurped sauerkraut off my engorged bratwurst and looked through the peephole for the endowed plumber.”

-Drama-

RICH: Thanks for the sandwich, Dad. Don’t think it makes up for all the boozing and you walking out on me and Mom and Baby Boon and Old Lady Glipper and all the beatings with the belt and the stick and the rusty rake and the vacuum cleaner and the Swiffer and the hourglass and the brass pocket watch. [Rich looks out the broken window.]

-Beat-

“i me you we he she ate a yum yum grubemups smorgasbording its like breathing take a man out of fish you can fish we all are fish where’s that fish the man looks at us like fish through his crystal window and we we we we we weeeeeeee (!) look back”

-Poetry-

There was nary a doubt,
For my sandwich I’d shout,
If it took its own route
Through the glass I looked out.

-Russian Classic-

I, Shanvokovic, steadily finished my becoldened soup made by Gregorinoviczh as if the weight on my conscience weren’t pressing deep down into my darkening soul. I looked out the architect’s airhole into the bleak grey of the day – grey, indeed, as my morality – as I waited for the sweet nightshade to seep into my bloodstream and for Borsha to find my explanatory farewell tome.

-Magic Realism-

I ate a sandwich and flew into the air vent.

Dice Titina

Que El Mundo de Sofía es una historia muy dura porque al final Sofía se da cuenta de que en realidad no existe y sólo es en la mente del escritor.

Casi igual que Matrix pero distinto.

Yo le contestaba que a mí me parece más dura la vida real, especialmente la mía, que es, estoy totalmente segura de ello, mucho más dura que la de la mayoría. Eso no significa que sea la peor, pero cerca le debe andar.

Hoy por la mañana Pati me ha preguntado si alguna vez me había preguntado si realmente existimos y yo le he contestado que cualquiera con al menos un dedo de frente se ha preguntado eso alguna vez. Y con esa excusa hemos vuelto al tema que inició Titina. Lo importante es, tal y como yo le he dicho a Pati esta mañana, no si existimos realmente o no; si nuestra vida es una vida de verdad o sólo la imaginación de alguien o algo. Lo que realmente importa es que el tiempo de dura la ilusión o la realidad de lo que llamamos vida sea lo mejor posible. Y que cada cual defina o interprete mejor, como mejor le parezca.

Posiblemente la mejor canción del mundo

Y la versión original, un poco de respeto...
http://youtu.be/fsDpznl8eIs

5 Questions to Ask About Anyone in Your Life (including myself)

By Amanda Fortini

"Self-deception remains the most difficult deception," Joan Didion wrote in her 1968 essay "On Self-Respect." Few of us are lucky enough to have avoided the heartbreak that comes from trusting someone who subsequently betrays us. The original transgression, the betrayal, is painful, but even more painful is the realization that we've betrayed ourselves—that we saw the signs and could have predicted the disastrous outcome from the start.

Why are we willing to overlook qualities or behaviors that nag us as problematic? Why don't we listen to our blaring inner alarms? Maybe it's simply that we want to see the best in people. Or, if you're anything like I was during my 20s, when I dated a succession of rude, angry and passive-aggressive guys, your motivations are frequently less noble: loneliness, lust, boredom, insecurity. Often, too, others are on their best behavior in the honeymoon stage of a relationship; we allow ourselves to be seduced by fun times or grand gestures and are then shocked when a very different person emerges in times of adversity.

If we had a set of questions that would allow us to figure when someone has made an honest mistake and when they've shown you, to quote Maya Angelou, "who they are," we might save ourselves a tremendous amount of pain and grief. Not to mention energy. And drama. Instead of vigilantly trying to interpret another person's actions (Was that malicious or a misunderstanding? Did he get busy and forget to call, or was he just plain rude?), we could determine for ourselves what's really going on. We went to a handful of experts for help coming up with five questions to ask about any relationship—whether a friendship, a romance or a business partnership:

How does this person treat the busboy?

"When people are acting disrespectful, contemptuous or superior, pay attention to that," says John Gottman, PhD, author of The Seven Principles for Making Marriage Work and co-founder, with his wife Julie Gottman, PhD, of the Gottman Institute. It can be easy to justify less-than-stellar behavior when it's directed toward yourself but more difficult to ignore it when you see it aimed at others. We can learn a lot by observing how the person in question treats his family, his friends, the waiter at the restaurant who forgets to put the dressing on the side. "If they kick their dog," says Harville Hendrix, PhD, best-selling author of Getting the Love You Want, "they're probably not going to treat you very well either."

Is this person truthful?

This seems an obvious question—and yet we're frequently willing to overlook or explain away a person's tendency to fib, mislead, or omit crucial details. Does your friend say she's staying home and later post pictures from a party online? Does your spouse tell you he's investing money back into the family business when he's really spending it on the sly? "You simply can't have a relationship if you lie to one another," says Robert Sternberg, PhD, provost and senior vice president of Oklahoma State University and author of The New Psychology of Love.

Knowing whether someone is honest is important because it raises another question: Can I trust this person? "If you don't have trust, you have no reliability," Hendrix says. "You can't make predictions, and if you can't make predictions then you have anxiety and conflict."

I had precisely this experience when I first began dating my fiancé. The issue was minor—I was flaky when it came to keeping travel commitments—but the effects on our relationship were not. I'd cancel or move a flight without a thought, my fiancé would get anxious and critical, and an argument would ensue. Eventually, I realized that it all came down to one fundamental issue: He couldn't trust me to follow through with plans. Not only was I showing him who I was with this behavior (disorganized, terrible at managing time, anxious when pinned down by commitments), I was also, I realized after we discussed it, showing him who I didn't want to be.

Does this person listen to me, or does he or she "listen"?

This question is particularly relevant now. Your friend, partner or spouse should not be texting, emailing or tweeting midconversation. A few years ago, when I was living in Los Angeles, I spent a lot of time with a movie producer friend whose fingers were flying across his BlackBerry keys each time we met for a meal. "I'm listening," he'd say, eyes lowered. But I decided that his refusal to put down his phone and converse was a clear signal that he valued his cellular goings-on above our friendship, and I quit making plans with him. "In every conversation, a person needs to stop and make eye contact and focus," says Hendrix. This approach may, in the long run, save you time: "It takes two or three minutes," says Hendrix, "but if you don't listen, you're going to have a fight, and it's two or three hours."

Is this person willing to be vulnerable?

"Vulnerability means a person's feelings are available in the conversation," says Hendrix. It also means having the ability (and the willingness) to fess up to guilt, anxiety or confusion. We've all known the friend who can't admit she made a mistake or that she doesn't have all the answers. "Most people," says Hendrix, "live in what is called a 'defended relationship.' They're afraid to be vulnerable. They're afraid to say, 'I'm scared,' or, 'I feel needy,' or, 'I have horrible memories.'" But the silence of someone who's disinclined to lower his defenses can speak quite loudly, telegraphing a fear of intimacy or a desire to remain emotionally in control.

How does this person fight?

Someone who is unable to communicate or be vulnerable often lacks the ability to resolve conflicts—what Jette Simon, a clinical therapist who runs the Washington D.C. Training Institute for Couples Therapy, calls "the capacity to repair." This trait is crucial, of course, because there's not a strife-free relationship on the planet. "It's not so much having conflicts that's going to determine the quality of your relationship," says Simon, "but can you each take responsibility for what you did and then go back and share?" In other words, does this person have the ability to admit that what he or she said at the dinner party or in the board meeting was hurtful? Or, if you're the contrite party, does your apology reach open, forgiving ears? As Gottman says, "You need to be able to talk about a regrettable incident or a fight you've had, to figure out what went wrong and how to make it better, without getting back into it." People who fight to win are showing you that making a point, proving they're right or asserting their own ego is ultimately more important to them than the relationship.

As helpful as these questions are, the experts agree that when you have a gnawing feeling that someone's behavior isn't right, trust that information, subtle though it may be. Believe the person, yes, but above all, believe yourself.

Santa Patrona del Régimen

Hay que ser muy lista y tener mucho talento para que, además de perder 25 kilos y mantenerlos durante mucho tiempo, se le ocurra a una escribir un libro sobre cómo hacerlo con buen humor, inteligencia y un título tan salao. ¿Como lo traducirías al español? Nuestra Señora de la Dieta, La Virgen del Régimen, María Auxiliadora de las Gordas, Virgen del Peso, A alguien se le ocurre algo más?

Libro de autoayuda divertido pero inútil si no abandonamos los helados y los macarrones, como en todo en la vida, no basta con sólo leerlo, ojalá fuera tan fácil.

La Princesa Prometida, 25 años

Solo por el título...

Go the Fuck to Sleep is a bedtime book for parents who live in the real world, where a few snoozing kitties and cutesy rhymes don't always send a toddler sailing blissfully off to dreamland. Profane, affectionate, and radically honest, California Book Award-winning author Adam Mansbach's verses perfectly capture the familiar--and unspoken--tribulations of putting your little angel down for the night. In the process, they open up a conversation about parenting, granting us permission to admit our frustrations, and laugh at their absurdity.

With illustrations by Ricardo Cortes, Go the Fuck to Sleep is beautiful, subversive, and pants-wettingly funny--a book for parents new, old, and expectant. You probably should not read it to your children.

"Total genius."

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En cualquier periódico de la mañana de hoy hay mucha más información que en toda la literatura universal del siglo XIV. Tweet.

The Great Stagnation de Tyler Cowen (con entrevista)

El LA Times ha descrito a Cowen como "el hombre que puede hablar de vudú haitiano, cine iraní, cocina hongkonesa, expresionismo abstacto, música barroca o arte popular mexicano con la misma aparente profundidad y facilidad". El centro del interés y las investigaciones de Cowen es la economía de la cultura. ha escrito libros sobre la fama (What Price Fame?), arte (In Praise of Commercial Culture), y comercio del arte (Creative Destruction: How Globalization is Changing the World's Cultures). Cowen elucubra sobre la capacidad que tiene el mercado, el mercado libre, esto es, para modificar las distintas culturas y mejorarlas para convertirlas más en un reflejo de lo que la gente realmente quiere. Otros libros: "Public Goods and Market Failures", "The Theory of Market Failure", "Explorations in the New Monetary Economics", "Risk and Business Cycles", "Economic Welfare" y "New Theories of Market Failure".

http://www.economist.com/blogs/freeexchange/2011/08/tyler-cowen-stagnation

Solo con ver la entrevista se da uno cuenta de que este señor, por lo menos piensa. Tembién recomiendo visitar su página web e investigar sobre este nuevo hombre del renacimiento.
La idea básica del libro se resume muy bien en el subtítulo. Hemos estado viviendo de los frutos que teníamos más a mano, y una vez consumidos estos, nos damos cuenta de que no hay de dónde sacar más.
Interesante punto de vista.
Este Cowen anda ideológicamente en tierra de nadie, cosa que me parece muy recomendable: policies not politics. Es defensor de gobiernos potentes para los estándares americanos pero probablemente ni se acercará a lo que tenemos en Europa. A veces da un poco de miedo por la que tenemos encima, pero....

Sueño de una Noche de Verano de William Shakespeare

ROBÍN (PUCK)
Esta noche el rey aquí tiene fiesta;
procura que no se encuentre a la reina:
Oberón está cegado de ira,
porque ella ha robado a un rey de la India
un hermoso niño que será su paje;
jamás había robado niño semejante.
Oberón, celoso, quiere la criatura
para su cortejo, aquí, en la espesura.
Mas ella a su lindo amado retiene,
lo adorna de flores, lo hace su deleite.
Y ya no se ven en prado o floresta,
junto a clara fuente, bajo las estrellas,
sin armar tal riña que los elfos corren
y en copas de bellotas todos se esconden.

HADA
Si yo no confundo tu forma y aspecto,
tú eres el espíritu bribón y travieso
que llaman Robín. ¿No eres tú, quizá?
¿Tú no asustas a las mozas del lugar,
trasteas molinillos, la leche desnatas,
haces que no saquen manteca en las casas
o que la cerveza no levante espuma,
se pierda el viajero de noche, y te burlas?
A los que te llaman «el trasgo» y «buen duende»
te agrada ayudarles, y ahí tienen suerte.
¿No eres el que digo?

ROBÍN (PUCK)
Muy bien me conoces:
yo soy ese alegre andarín de la noche.
Divierto a Oberón, que ríe de gozo
si burlo a un caballo potente y brioso
relinchando a modo de joven potrilla.
Acecho en el vaso de vieja cuentista
en forma y aspecto de manzana asada;
asomo ante el labio y, por la papada,
cuando va a beber, vierto la cerveza.
Al contar sus cuentos, esta pobre vieja
a veces me toma por un taburete:
le esquivo el trasero, al suelo se viene,
grita «¡Qué culada!», y tose sin fin.
Toda la compaña se echa a reír,
crece el regocijo, estornudan, juran
que un día tan gracioso no han vivido nunca.
Pero aparta, hada: Oberón se acerca.

PUCK: The king doth keep his revels here to-night:
Take heed the queen come not within his sight;
For Oberon is passing fell and wrath,
Because that she as her attendant hath
A lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king;
She never had so sweet a changeling;
And jealous Oberon would have the child
Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild;
But she perforce withholds the loved boy,
Crowns him with flowers and makes him all her joy:
And now they never meet in grove or green,
By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen,
But, they do square, that all their elves for fear
Creep into acorn-cups and hide them there.

FAIRY: Either I mistake your shape and making quite,
Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite
Call’d Robin Goodfellow: are not you he
That frights the maidens of the villagery;
Skim milk, and sometimes labor in the quern
And bootless make the breathless housewife churn;
And sometime make the drink to bear no barm
Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm?
Those that Hobgoblin call you and sweet Puck,
You do their work, and they shall have good luck:
Are not you he?

PUCK: Thou speak’st aright;
I am that merry wanderer of the night.
I jest to Oberon and make him smile
When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,
Neighing in likeness of a filly foal:
And sometime lurk I in a gossip’s bowl,
In very likeness of a roasted crab,
And when she drinks, against her lips I bob
And on her wither’d dewlap pour the ale.
The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,
Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me;
Then slip I from her bum, down topples she,
And ‘tailor’ cries, and falls into a cough;
And then the whole quire hold their hips and laugh,
And waxen in their mirth and neeze and swear
A merrier hour was never wasted there.
But, room, fairy! here comes Oberon.

Grandes principios: Matar a un ruiseñor de Harper Lee

When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow. When it healed, and Jem’s fears of never being able to play football were assuaged, he was seldom self-conscious about his injury. His left arm was somewhat shorter than his right; when he stood or walked, the back of his hand was at right angles to his body, his thumb parallel to his thigh. He couldn’t have cared less, so long as he could pass and punt.

When enough years had gone by to enable us to look back on them, we sometimes discussed the events leading to his accident. I maintain that the Ewells started it all, but Jem, who was four years my senior, said it started long before that. He said it began the summer Dill came to us, when Dill first gave us the idea of making Boo Radley come out.

I said if he wanted to take a broad view of the thing, it really began with Andrew Jackson. If General Jackson hadn’t run the Creeks up the creek, Simon Finch would never have paddled up the Alabama, and where would we be if he hadn’t?

We were far too old to settle an argument with a fist-fight, so we consulted Atticus. Our father said we were both right.

Being Southerners, it was a source of shame to some members of the family that we had no recorded ancestors on either side of the Battle of Hastings. All we had was Simon Finch, a fur-trapping apothecary from Cornwall whose piety was exceeded only by his stinginess. In England, Simon was irritated by the persecution of those who called themselves Methodists at the hands of their more liberal brethren, and as Simon called himself a Methodist, he worked his way across the Atlantic to Philadelphia, thence to Jamaica, thence to Mobile, and up the Saint Stephens. Mindful of John Wesley’s strictures on the use of many words in buying and selling, Simon made a pile practicing medicine, but in this pursuit he was unhappy lest he be tempted into doing what he knew was not for the glory of God, as the putting on of gold and costly apparel. So Simon, having forgotten his teacher’s dictum on the possession of human chattels, bought three slaves and with their aid established a homestead on the banks of the Alabama River some forty miles above Saint Stephens. He returned to Saint Stephens only once, to find a wife, and with her established a line that ran high to daughters. Simon lived to an impressive age and died rich.

It was customary for the men in the family to remain on Simon’s homestead, Finch’s Landing, and make their living from cotton. The place was self-sufficient: modest in comparison with the empires around it, the Landing nevertheless produced everything required to sustain life except ice, wheat flour, and articles of clothing, supplied by river-boats from Mobile.

Simon would have regarded with impotent fury the disturbance between the North and the South, as it left his descendants stripped of everything but their land, yet the tradition of living on the land remained unbroken until well into the twentieth century, when my father, Atticus Finch, went to Montgomery to read law, and his younger brother went to Boston to study medicine. Their sister Alexandra was the Finch who remained at the Landing: she married a taciturn man who spent most of his time lying in a hammock by the river wondering if his trot-lines were full.

When my father was admitted to the bar, he returned to Maycomb and began his practice. Maycomb, some twenty miles east of Finch’s Landing, was the county seat of Maycomb County. Atticus’s office in the courthouse contained little more than a hat rack, a spittoon, a checkerboard and an unsullied Code of Alabama. His first two clients were the last two persons hanged in the Maycomb County jail.

Atticus had urged them to accept the state’s generosity in allowing them to plead Guilty to second-degree murder and escape with their lives, but they were Haverfords, in Maycomb County a name synonymous with jackass. The Haverfords had dispatched Maycomb’s leading blacksmith in a misunderstanding arising from the alleged wrongful detention of a mare, were imprudent enough to do it in the presence of three witnesses, and insisted that the-son-of-a-bitch-had-itcoming-to-him was a good enough defense for anybody. They persisted in pleading Not Guilty to first-degree murder, so there was nothing much Atticus could do for his clients except be present at their departure, an occasion that was probably the beginning of my father’s profound distaste for the practice of criminal law.

During his first five years in Maycomb, Atticus practiced economy more than anything; for several years thereafter he invested his earnings in his brother’s education. John Hale Finch was ten years younger than my father, and chose to study medicine at a time when cotton was not worth growing; but after getting Uncle Jack started, Atticus derived a reasonable income from the law. He liked Maycomb, he was Maycomb County born and bred; he knew his people, they

knew him, and because of Simon Finch’s industry, Atticus was related by blood or marriage to nearly every family in the town.

Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first knew it. In rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew on the sidewalks, the courthouse sagged in the square. Somehow, it was hotter then: a black dog suffered on a summer’s day; bony mules hitched to Hoover carts flicked flies in the sweltering shade of the live oaks on the square. Men’s stiff collars wilted by nine in the morning. Ladies bathed before noon, after their three-o’clock naps, and by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.

People moved slowly then. They ambled across the square, shuffled in and out of the stores around it, took their time about everything. A day was twenty-four hours long but seemed longer. There was no hurry, for there was nowhere to go, nothing to buy and no money to buy it with, nothing to see outside the boundaries of Maycomb County. But it was a time of vague optimism for some of the people: Maycomb County had recently been told that it had nothing to fear but fear itself.

We lived on the main residential street in town— Atticus, Jem and I, plus Calpurnia our cook. Jem and I found our father satisfactory: he played with us, read to us, and treated us with courteous detachment.

A Hallmak Card

"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace."

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Posiblemente la mejor canción del mundo

Ohhh...

Oh her eyes, her eyes
make the stars look
like they're not shining
Her hair, her hair
falls perfectly
without her trying
She's so beautiful
and I tell her everyday

Yeah I know, I know
when I compliment her
she wont believe me
And it's so it's so
sad to think she
don't see what I see
But everytime she asks me do
I look okay
I say

[Chorus]

When I see your face
there's not a thing
that I would change
Cause you're amazing
Just the way you are

And when you smile
the whole world stops
and stares for a while
Cause girl you're amazing
Just the way you are.

Her lips, her lips
could kiss them
all day if she'd let me
Her laugh, her laugh
She hates but
I think it's so sexy
She's so beautiful
and i tell her
everyday

Oh you know, you know
you know
I'd never ask
you to change
if perfect is what
you're searching for
then just stay the same

So don't even bother asking
if you look okay
You know I say

[Chorus]

The way you are
The way you are
Girl you're amazing
Just the way you are

Amen to that!

When you look at another person's behavior (and please, do look at what he does, not just how he explains what he does. A man with a good and different explanation for each of the five times he's stood you up is a really good...explainer. Did you want to marry a world-class explainer?), the question will arise: Is it character or circumstance? Did he do what he did because of who he is, at his core, or was he pushed to that behavior by circumstance? Guess what? Pretty much, after 18, it's character, every time. It's true that under extraordinary circumstances—baby trapped under car, grandmother stuck in burning building—you might see some hitherto unsuspected heroism emerge in someone you thought had not a drop, and even so, what you learn from that is: He had a drop of heroism in him, after all. But it is also true that even a man pushed to robbing a bakery for bread for his starving child will show who he is by how he conducts himself during the robbery.

It's not true, despite what the advice columnists often write, that a man who leaves his wife for you will eventually leave you. It is true that a man who leaves his wife for you is capable of leaving you, and you would be smart to look at how he conducted himself during his divorce because no matter how crazy, bitter, unreasonable his ex was or is, his behavior reveals his character. You cannot behave cruelly without having some cruelty in your nature (and most of us do). An angry man who honors his obligations gracefully, a man who shows up on time to see his kids, even when their mother behaves badly—that man is a good bet.

I've also discovered that the Virtuous have their downside. A man who cannot face his own flaws or acknowledge the ugliness (not horrors—just normal human flaws: envy, jealousy, pettiness) in his nature, a man who will patiently explain, for days on end, that you should not be hurt by his behavior because he's a good guy who didn't mean to hurt you—may actually prove to be worse company, in the long run, than a guy who behaves badly from time to time and admits it. (Or at least, that's how it is for me. Deeply, Determinedly Virtuous people scare me.) As it turns out, I prefer the full boil to the long simmer and I wish I'd known it sooner.

By Amy Bloom
O, The Oprah Magazine
From the October 2008 issue
Read more: http://www.oprah.com/

Con la que está cayendo

Todos deberíamos leer este libro con 18 años y entenderlo**

Continueamente me acuerdo del que yo considero el mejor libro jamás escrito sobre bolsa e inversión. No es casualidad que viniera recomendado/impuesto por uno de mis dos jefes favoritos del mundo, que es además una de mis personas favoritas del mundo junto con mi otro jefe favorito (ahora pienso la suerte que he tenido en la vida, no con los maridos pero sí con los jefes) que también es una de mis personas favoritas del mundo. También he tenido varios jefes cabrones que me las han hecho pasar canutas... Pero no sé si es mejor tener un buen curro con un jefe cabrón o un curro cabrón con un buen jefe. ¿Qué os parece?

Cuenta Peter Lynch que fue a precisamente al final de los años 20, el momento en el que el mercado bursátil empezó a ser percibido por la gran masa como una inversión conservadora y segura, una "inversión prudente" le llama él, que hasta el momento había sido considerado terreno de temerarios, cuando ese mismo mercado, fuertemente sobrevalorado, se convirtio en una ruleta más que en una inversión. En palabras literales de Lynch, "generalmente la bolsa se percibe como una inversión segura en el preciso momento que no lo es".

Otro de los grandes, Warren Buffet, ha dicho: "En lo que a mí conciene, los mercados (bursátiles) no existen. Están ahí solo para servir de referencia para ver si hay alguien dispuesto a hacer alguna estupidez." Refiriendose a que lo que de verdad existe es el negocio y el trabajo diario y el comercio y los beneficios reales de la gente real que, en efecto luego traspasarán a un plano financiero y se multiplicarán o no en cifras macro, pero que siempre parten de un intercambio real de trabajo, bienes, servicios y dinero.

Hay un pasaje de este libro que me llamó la atención la primera vez que lo leí, y como puede ver el lector del blog, sigo recurriendo, cada oportunidad que me brinda la situación económica.

Traduzco sin demasiado cuidado: Estoy acostumbrado a oír que la crisis del 87-88 es un doble casi exacto de la crisis del 29-32 y que estamos al borde de entrar en una nueva gran depresión.Y de hecho la crisis del 87 es en muchos sentidos similar a la del 29. Y qué? Si volvemos a entrar en una gran depresión, no será porque se hunda la bolsa, más de lo que lo fue la primera (el hundimiento de la bolsa es un reflejo, no una causa). En aquellos días sólo el 1% de la población tenía carteras de acciones. La primera gran depresión sucedió por una ralentización de la economía en un país en el que el 66% de la población activa trabajaba en el sector manufacturero, el 22% en la agricultura y en el que no existía la seguridad social, desempleo, planes de pensiones, seguros, fondos de garantías ni nada parecido. Hoy en día sólo el 25% de la población activa se ocupa en la fabricación de bienes, la agricultura supone menos del 3% y el sector servicios, que ha estado creciendo sistemáticamente durante las épocas expansivas y recesivas supone más del 70%*. Al contrario que en los años 30, hoy en día la mayor parte de la población tiene una casa en propiedad y en muchos casos esas casas valen hoy mucho más que cuando se compraron - cierto que unas cuantas no, cierto, pero son la minoría más minoritaria; la mayoría de las familias cuentan con dos sueldos. Así que si estamos al borde de una gran depresión, no será en absoluto como la de los años 30.

Este párrafo fue y sigue siendo una epifanía para mí. La Gran Depresión americana de los años 30 tuvo a la gente sin comida que llevarse a la boca, sin techo bajo el que dorminr, sin trabajo, sin nada. Y esa misma sociedad salió de aquella profunda pobreza, igual que se ha recuperado Alemania de las dos guerras, Polonia e incluso Rusia de la catástrofe comunista. Japón de todas sus maldiciones, y el Sudeste asiático de las suyas. De hecho los únicos países que han permanecido sumidos en la pobreza crónica y pertinaz son los que se han mantenido fieles a la tiranía del comunismo.

Pero se salió del 29, se salió de la del petróleo, se salió de la liberalización de tipos de interés, se salió del fin del monopolio (virtual) de Telefónica, se salió de Internet, se salió de la reconversión, se salió del primer imperio del PSOE, hemos salido de dos guerras mundiales, del telón de acero, de los 80s, de la pubertad, hace falta que siga?

Una de las muchísimas cosas divertidas de este libro es esta lista de estupideces que dice la gente sobre la bolsa; sólo una muestra:

1. Si ha bajado tanto, ya no puede bajar más

2. Ha subido muchísimo, ya no puede subir más

3. Sólo 0.5€ por acción, cuánto puedo perder?

4. Ya subirá

5. Cuando vuelva al precio de compra, vendo

Y mis favoritos:

Si una acción que he comprado sube, debe ser que tengo razón

Si una acción que he comprado baja, debe ser que me he equivocado

Dice Peter Lynch que el único motivo por el cual si hoy compro una acción y el precio de ésta mañana ha subido es porque ha habido alguien dispuesto a comprar por más precio que yo. Y biceversa. El que tenga entendederas que entienda.

Y aún es posible que de esta nos vayamos efectivamente al carajo, que se acabo el mercado libre, los coches de gasolina y el regaliz. Torres más altas han caído, decía siempre mi madre. Y quizá no le falte razón.

* Son datos de EEUU en los años 90

** ¿Porqué en el colegio te obligan a leer filosofía y poesia y no esto? No lo entenderé JAMÁS!!

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream -- and not make dreams your master;
If you can think -- and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings -- nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run --
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And -- which is more -- you'll be a Man, my son!

Kindle is not kinder

Recientemente el oscuro objeto de mi deseo ha decidido regalarme su e-book; al día siguiente Titina me manda un mensaje ofreciéndome un Kindle que se ha encontrado tirado en un avión. Claramente es una confabulación internacional. He estado queriendo uno de esos cachivaches no sé cuántos años y ahora de repente se alinean los astros para hecerme llegar varios de golpe....

Y es entonces que me pongo a mirar cómo de más baratos son las desgargas para kindle que sus homólogos en papel. En una descarga no hay papel, no hay empleados de la imprenta, no hay transporte, y por tanto no hay camión, ni gasolina, ni conductor, no hay almacén, no hay tienda, no hay etiquetas, ni cajita de cartón ni plástico, ni empleado de correos.

La copia de Kindle es 4€ más cara que la copia en papel! Pues si que hemos avanzado. La geta de los comerciantes se pelea con pirateo y que se metan sus precios por sus adorables posaderas.

Brain bugs de Dean Buonomano, PhD

Lo que a veces percibimos como una intuición es en realidad un pequeño resbalón de nuestro cerebro. El motivo: el ser humano está originalmente diseñado para la supervivencia en la sabana africana, no para la vida diaria en nuestro mundo urbanizado, industrializado y mecanizado del siglo XXI. "Nuestros cerebros funcionan con un sistema operativo que tiene unos 100.000 años de antigüedad", dice Dean Buonomano, PhD, catedrático de neurobiología y psicología de UCLA y autor de este libro.

¿Cuál es el resultado? Que nuestro equipamiento intelectual tenga unos cuantos fallos. Por ejemplo, una persona corriente tiene más miedo a ser agredido por un desconocido (probabilidad real 1 entre 100,000) que a ser arrollado por un coche (probabilidad real 1 entre 10,000) porque nuestros miedos instintivos no se han actualizado al mismo ritmo que nuestra tecnología ni que los peligros reales de nuestro siglo. 

Otro ejemplo: Si te ofrecieran 100 euros ahora o 120 euros dentro de un mes, ¿con qué opción te quedarías? Refranes aparte, la mayoría de encuestados elegiría la primera opción porque nuestros instintos más primarios nos empujan a la gratificación más inmediata frente al beneficio a más largo plazo."

 

Contesta las siguientes preguntas, las dos primeras en voz alta y por último contesta la tercera todo lo rápido que puedas
1.En qué continente está Kenia?
2.Cuáles son los dos colores opuestos en el juego del ajedrez?
3.Di el nombre de un animal cualquiera.
Parrafito del libro:

"The brain is an incomprehensibly complex biogogical computer, responsible for every action we have taken, every decision, thought and feeling we've evera had. This is probably a concept that most people do not find conforting. Indeed, the fact that the mind emerges from the brain is something not all brains have come to accept. But our reticence to acknowledge that our humanity derives solely from the physical brain should not come as a surprise. The brain was not design to understand itself anymore than a calculator was desigh to surf the web."

Lo que me recuerda a otra entrada de este blog y a esta página web muy divertida de navegar pero increiblemente pesada de cargar.

Por cierto, nos hemos dado cuenta de que el autor de "otra entrada de este blog" da nombre al protagonista de Big Bang Theory? No? Pues ahora sí.

P.D. Conclusiones de la pregunta africana: el 20% de los que realizan la prueba dicen Cebra, pero ninguno de este 20% contesta Cebra si se le pide el nombre de un animal cualquiera sin las dos preguntas anteriores.

Aha! Women Food God

Cómo hablo yo de esto.

Llevo 41 años, que son exactamente 14.965 días, luchando cara a cara, garra con garra, kilo a kilo, grano de azúcar a grano de azúcar con la comida, el peso, la dependencia, la voluntad, la determinación, el fracaso, mi madre, mis miedos, todos los regímenes imaginables, todas las dietas, mis traumas, mis carencias.

(Esto para mí es personal)

Un par de apuntes previos sobre este libro, primero la validación. Llevo años diciendo que los gordos comemos para llenar un vacío. Uno distinto en cada caso, no tiene porqué ser siempre el mismo; y así llenamos nuestras carencias con comida y gordura y llegado el punto de tener que hacer algo, nos ponemos a dieta y seguimos huyendo de aquello que realmente nos aterroriza o que perseguimos y no conseguimos. Por fin encuentro almas gemelas que sienten lo que yo siento y piensan lo que yo pienso.

Sigue habiendo gente que dice (o piensa?) que comen porque les gusta la comida. Falso, y en el fondo lo saben. Nadie en su sano juicio come hasta que pone en riesgo su salud. Nadie en su sano juicio come hasta pesar 5-8-12-20 kilos más de lo que quiere. Si a uno le gusta la pintura no se traga 5 litros de témpera hasta que revienta o se queda de ocupa en un museo a tirar su vida por la ventana mientras observa un Kandinski. No. Si a una persona normal le gusta leer, no se come un libro ni se pasa 45 años atascado en el mismo libro leyendo las mismas frases una y otra vez. No.

El sobrepeso es un sintoma de una tendencia autodestructiva y de una adicción. Siempre. No existen la hiperactividad tiroidea, a nadie le engordan los guisantes ni los nísperos. Los gordos comemos compulsivamente buscando un falso refugio que nos sume aún más profundamente en un bucle autodestructivo del que no es posible salir con una dieta autoinfligida que te mantendrá en tu peso ideal durante unos 10 minutos. Un peso que tardas otros 10 días en recuperar porque si bien se ha librado uno del peso temporalmente, los problemas, las carencias, los vacíos y los traumas siguen ahí. Y seguirán.

Como siempre, tengo que transcribir algunos pasajes; si yo tuviera la mitad de la capacidad de la escritora habría escrito yo este libro:

"In an April 2007 UCLA study of the effectiveness of dieting, researchers found that one of the best predictors of weight gain was having lost weight on a diet at some point during the years before the study started."
El capítulo 4 se titula "It's not about the weight but it's not not about the weight". En este capítulo hay un joya detrás de otra, entre ellas:
"In Groundhog Day (El dia de la marmota) when he realized he wasnt going to gain wieght by eating a thousand cherry pies, Bill Murray ate like there was no tomorrow. But the charge dissipated as soon as he realized he could have as much food as he wanted without the usual consequences. When you take the charge away, all that's left is a no-big-deal piece of cherry pie" Cuántas veces me he preguntado porqué tengo que comerme el bote entero de helado y no me basta con un par de cucharadas. Porqué tengo que comerme el paquete entero de galletas y no me basta con una. Porqué tengo que comer hasta reventar y no me basta con un par de bocados... (yo creo que tengo la respuesta, pero de algún modo siniestro me gustaría que todo el mundo la obtuviera)
"So it's about the weight to the extent that wieght gets in the way of basic function: of feeling, of doing, of moving, of being fully alive"
"Weight (too much or too little of it) is a by-product. Weight is what happens when you use food to flatten your life. Even with aching joints, it's not not about the food. Even with arthritis, diabetes, high blood pressure. It's about your desire to flatten your life. It's about the fact that you've given up without saying so. It's about your belief that it's not possible to live any other way - and you're using food to act that out without ever having to admit it."
"A Sufi dervish called Mullah Nasrudin, who was smuggling treasure across the border and marterfully eluding the guards. Every day for four years he would parade back and forth, and with every corossing the guards knew he was hidng expensive goods that he would sell for outrageous amounts of money on the other side. But despite their throrough searches, and despite the fact that they could see that he was prospering, they could find nothing in the saddle of the donkey he rode. [...] the frontier guard said, Okay, you can tell me now, What were you smuggling? Nasrudin smiled broadly. My dear friend, I was smuggling donkeys. [...] It's hidden in plain sight. We are so busy paying attention to the million details of day-to-day life that we miss it."
"Among its many other motivations, compulsive eating is a reaching for, a yearnig for, an attempt to contact the place that is already whole."
"You can't be stuck if you're not trying to get anywhere" Suena tremendamente Zen, pero si permanentemente estoy pensando en lo que viene después de esto y no en el momento la consecuencia es doblemente tóxica: no disfruto realmente de lo que hago y no pienso en la consecuencia de lo que hago.
"The shape of your body obeys the shape of your beliefs about love, value and possibility. To change your body you must first understand that which is shaping it. Not fight it, Not force it. Not deprive it. Not shame it. Not do anything but accept - understand it."
"In the moment you reach for potato chips to avoid what you feel, you are effectively saying - I have no choice but to numb myself"
Y así hasta el final del libro. Es una colección valiosa de los motivos que nos empujan hacia la nevera en busca de otra cosa que llevarnos a la boca. A pesar de no tener hambre.
Este libro no te evita la dieta, no te abre la puerta de la felicidad, no te da la clave para dejar de ser tú mismo (mi auténtico problema todos estos años) no te proporciona una madre anímicamente estable que no necesite compararse con los que le rodean para sentirse superior (mi auténtico problema todos estos años), que te pone a dieta los días pares y te cebe los impares (mi auténtico problema todos etos añso), no va a conseguir llenar tu cabeza de inteligencia y sentido común (mi auténtico problema todos estos años), pero a lo mejor la próxima vez que viajes al armario de la cocina para ver qué hay, a pesar de haber ido varias veces y saber perfectamente lo que hay, puedes empezar a pensar que tu aburrimiento, tu soledad y tus muchas faltas no van a desaparecer con una bolsa de ancardos o patatas y que si pasas un rato a solas con tus miserias nadie se va a morir. Y cuando el ratito angustionso pase, se puede sonreir.

Si si si, me doy cuenta de que mi otro blog es sobre comida...

The Charge of The Light Brigade, Alfred Lord Tennyson

Siempre lloro cuando la leo o la oigo.........

Half a league half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred:

'Forward, the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns' he said:

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

'Forward, the Light Brigade!'

Was there a man dismay'd ?

Not tho' the soldier knew

Some one had blunder'd:

Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs but to do & die,

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volley'd & thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,

Flash'd as they turn'd in air

Sabring the gunners there,

Charging an army while

All the world wonder'd:

Plunged in the battery-smoke

Right thro' the line they broke;

Cossack & Russian

Reel'd from the sabre-stroke,

Shatter'd & sunder'd.

Then they rode back, but not

Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,

While horse & hero fell,

They that had fought so well

Came thro' the jaws of Death,

Back from the mouth of Hell,

All that was left of them,

Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?

O the wild charge they made!

All the world wonder'd.

Honour the charge they made!

Honour the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred!

Posiblemente la mejor cancion del mundo

Ooh my little pretty one, pretty one.

When you gonna give me some time, Sharona?
Ooh you make my motor run, my motor run.
Gun it comin' off the line Sharona
Never gonna stop, give it up.
Such a dirty mind. Always get it up for the touch
of the younger kind. My my my i yi woo. M M M My Sharona...

Come a little closer huh, ah will ya huh.
Close enough to look in my eyes, Sharona.
Keeping it a mystery gets to me
Running down the length of my thighs, Sharona
Never gonna stop, give it up. Such a dirty mind.
Always get it up for the touch
of the younger kind. My my my i yi woo. M M M My Sharona...

When you gonna give it to me, give it to me.
It is just a matter of time Sharona
Is it just destiny, destiny?
Or is it just a game in my mind, Sharona?
Never gonna stop, give it up.
Such a dirty mind. Always get it up for the touch
of the younger kind. My my my i yi woo. M M M My Sharona...

Quiz: What should Iread next?

Try this: http://www.whatshouldireadnext.com/

cheers!

How to pronounce Archer, as in Jeffrey Archer

http://www.oxfordadvancedlearnersdictionary.com/dictionary/archer

I Know I am a mean weasel just like Dr. Cooper, but I just cant´t help myself and yet utterly incapable of saying these things to the face.

Now listen to this fellow speak is a delight.

Truly a superior form of English. The real deal.

Dice Carmen

que soy una frikie. Es bastante probale. Mejor dicho: cierto. Pero ¿quién no lo es? Yo digo que la normalidad no existe; es sólo aparente.

Y ¿en qué noto yo que todos somos igual de raros? Que a todos nos gusta el Dr. Sheldon Cooper. Luego están los mega frikies que no saben quién es el Dr. Sheldon Cooper ni el Sr. Scrooge. Ya me entienden...

Pero en el fondo todos somos parte de alguna manada llena de ovejas iguales, con la misma lana blanca rizada, o la misma cara negra, todas diciendo beeeeeee.

Estaba yo pensando en acompañar esta entrada de algún vídeo de Youtube que demostrara lo mucho que me identifico con TODOS los personajes, ese es el encanto de la serie, que la mayor parte de nosotros lleva un poquito de cada uno de ellos dentro, pero son demasiados y no he sido capaz de elegir uno.

Cambio de opinion: http://youtu.be/rxBlJR2Ppuk

I need a mood boost

The Winter's Tale
William Shakespeare
En esta historia de amor, escrita supuestamente -quién sabe nada de Shakespeare estos días- al final de su vida, un rey cree que su mujer murió como resultado de sus dañinos celos, sin embargo, un día, 16 años después de la supuesta muerte le muestran una "estatua" de ella y ve cómo tiene una segunda oportunidad de empezar desde cero aprovechando el poder tarnsformador del amor, el arte y el perdón.
Estos días pienso mucho en las segundas y terceras y cuartas y quintas y sextas oportunidades.

Flush

Virginia Woolf
204 pags; Mariner Books
Biografía, dulce y conmovedora, del cocker spaniel de Elizabeth Barrett. Es la historia de la vida y la historia de amor de Elizabeth contada desde la perspectiva de su perro, Flush. El perro nace y pasa sus primeros meses en Inglaterra, pero acompañará a su ama escritora desde el momento que escapa de la tiranía de la casa paterna hacia Italia en compañía de su marido, el poeta Robert Browning.

 

 

Charlotte's Web

E.B. White 

184 pags; HarperCollin

A mi desde luego no me da ni miedo ni vergüenza leer cuentos de niños. La historia sobre un cerdito llamado Wilbur rescatado del matadero gracias a la inteligencia y habilidad de su amiga, la araña Charlotte. Serán las palabras todo un cerdo, estupendo, brillante y humilde (some pig, terrific, radiant, humble) que, al aparecer misteriosamente sobre su establo, le salven de convertirse en bacon y empezar a ganar premios en las ferias y llevar una vida cómoda y feliz en el establo junto a los demás animales. Toda una alegoría sobre la Amistad, la palabra adecuado y una buena campaña de comunicación.

Tampoco está mal ver la peli solo por oir las melodiosas voces de la Roberts como Charlotte, Oprah en el papel de la gansa y a Robert Redford en el del caballo.

 
 

Persuasion
Jane Austen
328 pags; AbeBooks

La última novella escrita por la autora, convertida en reina de Holiwood, cuenta las alegrías otoñales del amor en la segunda vuelta. Anne Elliot y el Capitán Wentworth comprueban que hay segundas oportunidades, en este caso con un primer amor de juventud. Yo me alegro de que mis segundas oportunidades hayan sido con amores nuevos. Muchas veces lo que no funcionó la primera vez no puede funcionar nunca. No es este caso. Tan bonita historia de amor como todas las demás de SuperJane.

FELIZ LECTURA

Coaching

"La felicidad depende de uno mismo" Aristóteles,
unos 300 años antes de Cristo y seguimos dándole vueltas

Posiblemente la mejor canción del mundo

Do you have the time

To listen to me whine
About nothing and everything
All at once
I am one of those
Melodramatic fools
Neurotic to the bone
No doubt about it

Sometimes I give myself the creeps
Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me
It all keeps adding up
I think I'm cracking up
Am I just paranoid?
Am I just stoned?

I went to a shrink
To analyze my dreams
She says it's lack of sex
That's bringing me down
I went to a whore
He said my life's a bore
So quit my whining cause
It's bringing her down

Sometimes I give myself the creeps
Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me
It all keeps adding up
I think I'm cracking up
Am I just paranoid?
Uh, yuh, yuh, ya
Grasping to control
So I better hold on

Sometimes I give myself the creeps
Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me
It all keeps adding up
I think I'm cracking up
Am I just paranoid?
Am I just stoned?

http://youtu.be/NUTGr5t3MoY

La Encrucijada de Carlota de Isabel Aguilera

El libro, dividido en dos grandes bloques temáticos, narra la historia de Carlota, una ejecutiva que se ve obligada a replantearse su futuro después de la muerte de su madre. Casi sin tiempo, deberá decidir entre comandar la empresa farmacéutica de su progenitora o aceptar una jugosa oferta de trabajo en California (EE. UU.), entre malabarismos para conciliar su carrera laboral con su vida familiar.

"Ante todo, no quiero pontificar. No hay una respuesta única ante un problema. Las reacciones de Carlota están matizadas por su propia personalidad. Otras personas lo resolverían de forma diferente", asegura la autora, que pretende transmitir un "doble mensaje".

"Por un lado", añade, "cuando tomas una decisión, el paso siguiente es ejecutarla y hacer que sea la buena. Asimismo, el otro mensaje es que en la vida vamos avanzando, vamos teniendo experiencias y, al final, lo importante es todo lo que queda hecho, lo que dejamos".

Para ejecutar los proyectos, la autora destaca la importancia de un buen equipo, de la suma de varios talentos que terminan aportando un valor añadido al conjunto. "Para elaborar una pieza de seda, necesitas la labor de muchos gusanos de seda que hacen su propia obra y forman parte de ese todo. Lo importante no es convertirse en mariposa", dice.
Sin pena ni gloria. He leído ya varios libros de este subgénero tan yanqui y este es probablemente el peor. A mí esta señora no me gusta como escritora y no me interesa demasiado lo que me cuenta.... No siempre se gana

Católico vs Anglo o porqué Jesús (Dios) es de derechas o de izquierdas según la iglesia a la que vayas

Juan 5:7
Después de esto había una fiesta de los judíos, y Jesús subió a Jerusalén. 2 En Jerusalén, junto a la puerta de las Ovejas, hay un estanque con cinco pórticos que en hebreo se llama Betesda. 3 ,4 En ellos yacía una multitud de enfermos, ciegos, cojos y paralíticos.
5 Se encontraba allí cierto hombre que había estado enfermo durante treinta y ocho años. 6 Cuando Jesús lo vio tendido y supo que ya había pasado tanto tiempo así, le preguntó:

-¿Quieres ser sano?

7 Le respondió el enfermo:

-Señor, no tengo a nadie que me meta en el estanque cuando el agua es agitada; y mientras me muevo yo, otro desciende antes que yo.

8 Jesús le dijo:

-Levántate, toma tu cama y anda.

9 Y en seguida el hombre fue sanado, tomó su cama y anduvo. Y aquel día era sábado.

10 Entonces los judíos le decían a aquel que había sido sanado:

-Es sábado, y no te es lícito llevar tu cama.

11 Pero él les respondió:

-El que me sanó, él mismo me dijo: "Toma tu cama y anda."

12 Entonces le preguntaron:

-¿Quién es el hombre que te dijo: "Toma tu cama y anda"?

13 Pero el que había sido sanado no sabía quién había sido, porque Jesús se había apartado, pues había mucha gente en el lugar. 14 Después Jesús le halló en el templo y le dijo:

-He aquí, has sido sanado; no peques más, para que no te ocurra algo peor.

15 El hombre se fue y declaró a los judíos que Jesús era el que le había sanado. 16 Por esta causa los judíos perseguían a Jesús, porque hacía estas cosas en sábado. 17 Pero Jesús les respondió:

-Mi Padre hasta ahora trabaja; también yo trabajo.

Dejando de lado el hecho de ser probablemente la única persona de mi familia extendida que lee la biblia a pesar de ser (o precisamente por serlo) la única atea confesa, convencida e irredenta, paso a explicar la reflexión que hago sobre este fragmento basado en las dos interpretaciones opuestas que observo.

Primero el católico: un paralítico está esperando entrar en la piscina de los milagros durante 38 años pero siempre hay alguiern que se le adelanta y no consigue que nadie haga el trabajo por él. Entonces llega Jesús y le cura simplemente emitiendo unas palabras. O sea que uno se puede pasar 38 años a la sombra del pairo esperando que llegue otro, "mayormente" papá estado y sus impuestos y le haga el trabajo y le soluciones los problemas y así el maleante de turno se puede ir a su casa de protección oficial y a sus vacaciones del imserso o al servicio de salud gratuito.

Y luego el anglo: un paralítico está esperando entrar en la piscina de los milagros durante 38 años pero siempre hay alguien que se le adelanta y no consigue que nadie haga el trabajo por él. Entonces llega Jesús, que, contra los imperativos sindicales, está currando en horario fuera de convenio, y le dice al paralítico, "mueve tu polvoriento culo, recoge tus cosas y ponte en marcha" o lo que es lo mismo, si uno mismo no se ocupa de sus asuntos, no esperes que lo haga el vecino.

Y todo esto lo digo con la certeza de que dios no existe, igual que los gnomos no existen, que si tienes parálisis cerebral y medular, no habrá nada ni nadie que te levante de tu silla de ruedas, y que ojalá yo fuera tan lista como Bill Gates y me cosatara menos esfuerzo mover mi polvoriento culo, recoger mis cosas y ponerme en marcha (o lo que es lo mismo, ganarme el sueldo todos los meses y cumplir con TODAS mis obligaciones)

I'm in it

Hoy he visto el "como se hizo" de Juego de Tronos, serie de TV que ha producido la HBO basada en un clásico de culto de la literatura anillesca escrita por un tal George R.R. Martin, a quien yo no conocía y que lleva 5 tomos de unas 700 páginas cada uno de ellos. Prometo comprarme el libro hoy mismo y no perderme ni un capítulo de la versión televisiva.

La serie, de 10 capítulos, promete guerras, intrigas, monstruos, sexo tórrido, venganzas, barro, traiciones y sorpresas. La única pega que se me ocurría esta mañana al ver el programa es el frío de la serie, para el que me parecía más adecuado ponerla en noviembre y no en mayo; pero ahora lo pienso mejor e igual es buena idea refrescarnos la primavera con la nieve de la pantalla.

Es más que probable que la historia sea un refrito de un millón de cosas que hemos visto antes, lo cual no me preocupa nada si está bien hecha y es divertida. De hecho en el avance de esta mañana analizaban a los personajes más importantes y uno de ellos tiene que ser un doble casi clónico del Gloucester de Shakespeare que hemos revisitado recientemente. En este caso se trata de un enano intrigante que es algo así como el auténtico pilar de la historia. Bienvenido sea el clon si nos hace pasar un buen rato. La serie se estrena el 18 de mayo en Canal Plus, de mientras voy a emprezar el libro. Ya veremos...

Posiblemente la mejor canción del mundo

(Lennon/McCartney)

I look at all the lonely people
I look at all the lonely people

Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for?

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

Father McKenzie writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near.
Look at him working, darning his socks in the night when there's nobody there
What does he care?

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people

Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name
Nobody came
Father McKenzie wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave
No one was saved

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

La naturaleza del poder

SCENE I. London. A street.

Enter GLOUCESTER, solus

GLOUCESTER
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barded steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the king
In deadly hate the one against the other:
And if King Edward be as true and just
As I am subtle, false and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up,
About a prophecy, which says that 'G'
Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here
Clarence comes

Quien todas deberíamos ser - Maya Angelou

Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size But when I start to tell them, They think I'm telling lies. I say, It's in the reach of my arms The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. I walk into a room Just as cool as you please, And to a man, The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees. Then they swarm around me, A hive of honey bees. I say, It's the fire in my eyes, And the flash of my teeth, The swing in my waist, And the joy in my feet. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Men themselves have wondered What they see in me. They try so much But they can't touch My inner mystery. When I try to show them They say they still can't see. I say, It's in the arch of my back, The sun of my smile, The ride of my breasts, The grace of my style. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Now you understand Just why my head's not bowed. I don't shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud. When you see me passing It ought to make you proud. I say, It's in the click of my heels, The bend of my hair, the palm of my hand, The need of my care, 'Cause I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Maya Angelou