Not my calling

My cell phone broke down.

It happened while I was sick, and I my first thought was It's great that it is only the talking machine and not the photo taking, the music playing or the e-book reading machines that broke down too. I am against confluence of gadgets, you see?, and this event only reinforces my position.

The problem with the cell phone it's just that the screen wouldn't turn on when it should, but I can still receive calls and use the speed dial without any issues. So when I got back of my feet I carried it around in my front pocket (its usual place), just in case one of the two people that call me mobile wanted to reach me (which they did).

My cell phone is not broken, I then found out. It just needs to stay in my pocket and warm up, and that's when the screen lights wake up.

My cuddly doodly Alcatel cell phone, needs human warmth and a little nudging to work. Let the others be cold machines, the cell phone is looking for a committed relationship. I wonder if I have to give it a name too.

A reacquired taste

The summers of my childhood were spent, mostly, reading books from a certain series very much in vogue during the 40's and 50's. I'm not sure where they were published (probably Madrid or Buenos Aires), and in spite of their age, they are a shared memory of my generation.


Among the many books that fell in my hands, there were the ones penned by Italian writer Emilio Salgari. They were books of adventures in exotic places, and they had this peculiarity of having been originally published as a series in a magazine. For this reason, they were some restless literature; a thing happening in every chapter, many characters but superficial, a very strong plot line without subplots that would develop or come back in further chapters, and extremely melodramatic because the author had to grab readers' attention again in every issue.

This literature, I admit, must be an acquired taste. I am reading Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South, and in spite of the claims of it having been rewritten, it is plainly, a story to be read chapter by chapter and without flipping back pages once. I like it though at first found it mildly annoying. Then again, that's the very definition of acquired taste, isn't it?

The health of the sick

The health of the sick is a loosely translated title of a favorite short story by Julio Cortázar, "La salud de los enfermos", and that pretty much sums up where I've been lately.

In spite of considering myself rather healthy, every once in a while I fall with a severe case of something I hadn't had before. In the past decade I experienced the charms of allergic rinitis (once I counted 100 sneezes in one hour!!!), kidney infection (nasty), cytomegalovirus infection (with a week watching cable TV in a hospital bed) and right now, bronchospasm.

I'd say that only the kidney infection was painful. But it was, and the others as well, rather interesting experiences. They are undoubtedly uncomfortable and they take me out of my daily drill, but they make me marvel of how good everything normally goes. Of how wonderful it is to be able to smell perfume without sneezing violently (not to mention to appreciate it, that's heavenly!), of making a visit to the toilet quick and uneventful, of doing my daily walking and climbing stairs without being left gasping for air (or feeling a little woozy after a coughing fit), and after the CMV wild ride, of how incredibly good it is to be able to hold my head higher than the rest of my body.

They say you don't appreciate something until you lose it, but I don't think it needs to be so. Having it temporarily taken away from you does help, though. Helps a lot.

I (heart) blogging

I wanted to blog from my job without feeling guilty, so I opened "The Library Blog".

Though learning to use WordPress is harder than anticipated, I'm having a blast surfing the web for cute pictures and, well, blogging guilt free.

It's in Spanish only but if you'd like to visit, be my guest!

biblioiie