Floral Stands - For Rent

reflexes I homeland

I been reading some articles George Steiner to refine my masters project. His essays, samples of clarity and intelligence is no waste anywhere, texts whose main foundation is courtesy humanist, even those with whom one may not agree with courtesy, good nature (what a beautiful word so unusual) of give us the tools to cope. Steiner is at the same time, the guard and the objector of his ideas, Europe, books, literature, high culture, Heidegger, de Maistre ... This is the humility of humanism, to know that anyone can respond and listening with respect, this is also the courage of the humanist, sitting in front of the opponent, the student, who that is, with really bright eyes, ready to educate, to close, with love for the Other and the Word, with an irony so fine that betrays a love for the Word, not contempt for the listener ... Reading

Steiner project ideas come to me, long projects that could devote a lifetime of careful search. Many ideas come to mind, many I land it, others simply ignore them because life is never enough. Many projects, many want to read, to read the world, reading life.

While I still think, I present a poem by the great Colombian poet William Ospina. In its way, the poem has to do with some ideas that are around, surround redound my head.

All life is a journey, all life is a book, a lifetime in a verse and a verse from the air that gives life.

"Where they burn books today, tomorrow will burn human beings"
H. Heine

FRANZ KAFKA

Father, I say, give me three grains of barley to wake the sleeper.
But my father did not respond;
is a huge bronze rider, high on hills and synagogues.
Mother, I say, away so much fog,
show me a sweet face, which sprout naïve words.
But she lost in the alleys of stone and only find in their ojosi nmensos mirror.
Grandpa, tell By then, most do not fight with the angel, come tell stories with lfuego, while freezes the Elbe.
But the old man looks at me with eyes absent, and understand that my grandfather is but an old gypsy who wants to sell me a memory.
sister, beautiful sister, I say, take my hand
pscuro in this house is huge.
But to me goes a Polish countess
monumental and arrogant and you hear a violin, and closes a door.
Brother, I say, what a fine ride the horse of wood and lacquer,
where do we take these evenings uncertain?
But he is just an image, a gray picture in my hands, and far
, atrocious, cannons resonate.
Goethe, I say, sing me a song Roman
make me feel in my heart this ancient sadness.
But the tomb is silent and gray doves flying over it and I can not open this book because the pages are of ash. Millennium
I say then, maybe you can finally save me, tell me
sot of flesh and blood, that what torments me is a desire.
But she loved afantasma thousands of emaciated and barely perceive two flames that far off.
So is all this madness? Who I can call to save me?
His kingdom is of this world. All are accepted and cleared.
are human too, are very tight, and not
managed to talk to my sound of elytra,
and never learned to cross the gates, and I can not defend
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If you see two gray eyes on the night of Prague Gothic
understand that I am afraid to die if I fall asleep.
If you hear a song on the night of Prague Gothic
understand Quei ntento know where I stand.
If you hear a heart on the night of Prague Gothic
understand who holds the whole dream.

Brussel Griffon/poodles Mix

Here I am. Back after many months. I would plead work, thesis or many things ... however, I must say that the main thing was the boredom, the better, the spleen . It was not fatigue NDA, were simply the desire to say nothing, or words that were and would not let me say anything. He spent a lot and all I write, I did not and is not the time to do so, are those things that after a while, ceased to be current, they lose some of its meaning. Many things, unamitas in Ecuador, consultation, reforms are not reached, the deceptions, deaths ... many things, after a long process, I graduated with a thesis on the ballads, a thesis I wrote with taste, flavor, a thesis with which I met a literary world that I never imagined such a complex and rich, and yet I wrote a thesis without the passion with which I was accustomed to do things ... many things, a horrible introductory course to enter the master classes in automatically, without rhyme or reason, without a clear, intellectual platitudes and an underestimation insulting (to some) ... lot, the entrance to the master, back to my project, return to the passion, emotion and thinking of making poetry from deep intellectual, visceral from the hypothalamus, from the desire to read widely and write what is necessary .. .
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I'm happy, I feel half but in the process, as I like to feel. I will use the break to rest, resume writing and reading what I like. I will take vacation and think you, idle reader, will suffer.
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[By the way, good old Alfredo Carrera has sent me a prize. Thanks, man, by the cebollazo, reading and patience after time. Will a hug.]
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And to continue, not my voice, but Francisco:

The resignation of the witness.

And how I've matured. In this light
'm dead and fall. There is a light, which is cold,
........................................ ......................... black, black. They waited

my eyes here that the sky was always grilled
and the stars appeared, pure, live,
in the same place (and before the man was
and that was the flower and bird), the exact
beauty of the eternal birth.
Nothing mattered then go.
remained light and was eternal.
The world's youth, his joyful beat, was itself testimony
demi life.
Who could extinguish the flames in my eyes?
flashed to live, and I bore witness
existence.


Now watch this sky and see its light tamibén has aged.

The stars were not young. Or eternal.
And I've witnessed,
with my life, no permanence.

black Spirit will give me his wing, and the Spirit
white born of it, know the essence of Light,
their absence.

Francisco Brines, The last shore

What Kind Of Engineers Designs Cars

Back to

First. Blog blogging.

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Rafa Idea. It would be great to build a blog where we deposit all this other blog that we seem fascinating, accomplished, interesting, fun [something like menename , but more intimate]. Here are three suggestions of what to read in net life :

Jesus Silva-Herzog Márquez raises blisters and revives the discussion about the paraphernalia, validity and farces of cultural studies to recall the famous incident Sokal, wherein the physical upended many academic institutions gringo (and other Western glancing ) in an acidic parody and polemic, but no less poignant. Link to an article by Steven Weinberg , published more than ten years Back on the validity of the experiment sokaliano. It's worth reading the post , responses and testing for all that we can leave the unveiling of a charlatan ... Or not? Rogelio Villarreal

(the editor of the distinguished Replicante ) launches a fierce and well-argued critique against this monster called The Chamuco little to do with the logradísima antisalinista magazine that published some of the cartoonists of today. Of course, that made it without the shadow of the Enlightened One of Macuspana cacique.

Although not a blog, you can read on-line : Gabriel Zaid has just published the latest issue of Letras Libres an erudite essay on the origin of the human obsession with productivity, its effects and causes rehash. Here the link . Despite the sudden progressive (in the sense masl iteral, not political) Nosi nvade that for 500 years, always lucid Zaid intends to recover another productivity, mental conversation. Chapeau , maestro.

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Segundo. Invitation.

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My dear friend and admired poet Santiago Matías invites us to an intergenerational reading at home as always, the Casa del Poeta. As usual, will be at the Café-Bar (euphemism) "Ants", at 19:00. The appointment is on Thursday March 6, share a table with the editor of B or n or b or s poets Eduardo Ernesto Lumbreras Milan.

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Cormac McCarthy. highway. A father and son. Devastation. The loneliness. The other is me. The powerful simplicity of a great storyteller.

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"The boy sat tambaleba. Man not beat watched the flames. Made some holes in the sand to accommodate the hips and boy's shoulders when they go to bed and sat hugging him as he ruffled his hair before the fire to dry it. All this is in an ancient anointing. So be it. Evokes the forms. When you have nothing more infúndeles invented ceremonies and life. "

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" He had made the boy a flute from a piece of cane from the curb and knocked it out of the parka to give it . The boy took it wordlessly. After a while he was a little behind and minutes later the man heard it touched. A formless music for the next era. Or perhaps the last music in the Earth, emerging from ashes of devastation. The man turned and looked. Was highly concentrated. The man thought he seemed a sad and lonely orphan boy to the county announcing the arrival of a traveling show, a child who does not know that background, the actors have been devoured by wolves. "

They