tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77469152107182182632024-02-07T10:53:13.365-03:00Crossings of my mindJuliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.comBlogger85125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-22323998655843821242011-12-19T10:38:00.018-02:002011-12-19T10:43:23.689-02:00Channeling DooceI suppose that excessive exposure to <a href="http://www.dooce.com/">Dooce</a> can have side effects.<br />
<br />
----<br />
<br />
Baby is in my arms and stretches her hand as if to snatch something on a high surface. I hand her something safe (stuffed, soft, big, etc.) but she is not happy and keeps stretching her hand. I speak aloud:<br />
<br />
- Mmmh... you don't like your toy. How about a rusted nail then? A shard of glass? A paring knife? The lid of a can? Coupla' pills would be just the thing? Would it make you happy?<br />
<br />
And there's always someone present who says - Oh no, don't you give her anything of that. It might be <i>dangerous</i>!<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
Another one. Baby or nephew falls awkwardly and cries dramatically, mostly out of surprise than any real pain.<br />
<br />
- Oh sweetie, let me see it. Does it hurt a lot? Mmh? Do you think we'll have to amputate? No? That's good. Go back to play.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
Whenever I say things like that I feel I'm channeling Heather Armstrong, queen of misunderstood sarcasm and hyperbole.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-62890570598797625272011-12-12T12:30:00.001-02:002011-12-12T12:30:41.581-02:00Wallpaper friendsA reference to Bono, singer of incombustible* Irish band U2, made me want to listen to their music. So right now (internet has made us very anxious people, hasn't it?) they are singing <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=co6WMzDOh1o&ob=av2e">Beautiful Day</a> through a can - or so it seems with my awful speakers. I'm not complaining, though, I'm getting my fix!<br />
<br />
But it makes me think that U2, which has been around since about the time I was born (2 years more, actually), sounds a lot like they were my friends. I've heard their music for the past two decades, I've bought some of it and been to one concert (I would have gladly gone to more and maybe will one day), their songs have been with me in different stages of my life, different moods, places and people, different times, same music, same sound. It's not wallpaper music but it's been there all this time. Sometimes in the background, sometimes in the forefront. Mostly, for unfathomable reasons, it makes me think of very pleasant things; it triggers my imagination wheels to places it doesn't visit otherwise.<br />
<br />
It's crazy to think that they somehow are part of my identity, though we'll never meet. U2's songs might not be wallpaper music, but they feel like wallpaper friends to me. Not exactly real but not fictional either. The limbo of celebrity-dom, I suppose.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/6gezrVPZHZA" width="420"></iframe><br />
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* I'm sure "incombustible" doesn't exist in English, but it's a term I heard often in Spain and it fits U2 perfectly. Non combustible; it doesn't go down in its own flames. Ever.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-76841800488580943022011-12-05T12:07:00.001-02:002011-12-05T12:45:42.331-02:00Reading aloudRegretting over the demise of customs of the past doesn't seem wise (it's for a reason that they're gone, after all), but lately I've been wondering about reading aloud - probably because it's an activity I carry out for about half an hour, almost every night. And it's surprisingly difficult, to give the right inflection, to make it interesting (though I aim for boring and sleep inducing), to actually read the written words instead of the words I'd expect to. <br />
<br />
Once an English teacher mentioned that friends would meet and read a book aloud and it struck me as an excellent idea. I am not aware of this actually happening anywhere (except among actors), and I don't think my friends would find it enticing to meet and read one book aloud. Very unlikely.<br />
<br />
But some nights when I'm reading to my daughter, I imagine what it would be like, having more people giving their voices to the characters and narration. Maybe her voice will join mine one day. Or maybe, it will take over.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-69270072430158616862011-11-21T13:24:00.001-02:002011-11-21T13:35:54.846-02:00NervesI'm nervous. There's a job opening and I want to submit my application - I've been waiting for this opening ever since I got my degree, five years ago, I've been talking about how I'd apply, how I was building my resumé so I'd had everything ready.<br />
<br />
Now, I'm nervous. In the past year I moved overseas, had a baby, and moved again. This was pushed somewhere to the back of my mind, and now I'm rushing to get all my stuff in order. Because actually, I wasn't ready.<br />
<br />
It's no small miracle that I didn't misplace every little certificate and verification paper I should present now, though there is one I simply don't even remember what it looks like. I hope it's not important (for sure it's not my degree or my CPE, the heavyweights of my CV), but still... how silly of me.<br />
<br />
So now, I'm nervous. My stomach is in a knot. I giggle and things just fall off my hands. Tomorrow morning I'll be going to the applications office with my bundle of paperlets reflecting what I did in the past 10 years, and I'm sure tonight I'll dream it rains and it gets drenched, or that I take a bus to another part of the city, or that I oversleep and I forget or... my nervousness dreams are haunting.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow afternoon I'll be someone lighter, I know. Or heavier with regret. Who knows? I do know, though, the next 24 hours are going to be longer than the past 24 hours. If my nerves are able to do something, is to stretch time. Sometimes unbearably. Like just now.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-49219146668906243682011-11-07T17:19:00.000-02:002011-11-07T17:19:31.837-02:00GoodbyeThe past two months have been a torment for <a href="http://crossingsofmymind.blogspot.com/2010/07/birthday.html">you</a>, but now you're finally in peace.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Mcmp4xDz0e8" width="420"></iframe><br />
<br />
Thank you for your love and your generosity. Thank you for living such a beautiful, inspiring life. Thank you for some of the best moments of my childhood and adult life.<br />
<br />
Thank you for everything. I love you.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-82908067984111036822011-10-24T10:32:00.000-02:002011-10-24T10:32:00.171-02:00Not my callingMy cell phone broke down.<br />
<br />
It happened while I was sick, and I my first thought was <i>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>. I am against confluence of gadgets, you see?, and this event only reinforces my position.<br />
<br />
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).<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-77666328202699938952011-10-17T11:10:00.001-02:002011-10-17T11:10:19.178-02:00A reacquired tasteThe 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.<br />
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
This literature, I admit, must be an acquired taste. I am reading Elizabeth Gaskell's <a href="http://www.online-literature.com/elizabeth_gaskell/north-south/">North and South</a>, 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?Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-5545568052920636982011-10-11T13:05:00.002-02:002011-10-11T13:06:01.909-02:00The health of the sickThe 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-37683886410353279722011-10-04T09:26:00.001-02:002011-10-04T09:26:26.172-02:00I (heart) bloggingI wanted to blog from my job without feeling guilty, so I opened "The Library Blog".<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
It's in Spanish only but if you'd like to visit, be my guest!<br />
<br />
<a href="http://biblioiie.wordpress.com/">biblioiie</a>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-36933134030609252242011-09-26T10:27:00.000-03:002011-09-27T08:41:42.808-03:00Goodbye REMLast Wednesday afternoon my father sent me an email with a <a href="http://remhq.com/news_story.php?id=1446">link to the REM homepage</a>, with the news that the band was a band no more.<br />
<br />
As I've <a href="http://crossingsofmymind.blogspot.com/2011/05/metaphors-of-good-and-evil-for-children.html">already mentioned once</a>, during my teens I was a big fan of their music. My very first own CD was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Out_of_Time_%28album%29">Out of Time</a>, and my second was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Automatic_for_the_People">Automatic for the People</a> - I was 15 years old and worked crazy hours as a typist to save the u$s 20 each cost, and unlike the few other things I worked hard to pay for in those days, I still own them. During most of that decade their music was my soundtrack, and when I started browsing the web in the warm summer nights of January 1996, it was to look for their lyrics and news about them. I owe REM a lot... my early internet literacy skills, my enthusiasm to learn English, some (maybe a lot, maybe not so much) of my artistic sensibility, a good stack of CD's I don't plan to part ways with, ever.<br />
<br />
In January 2001 they played in Buenos Aires and I jumped the pond with my <a href="http://crossingsofmymind.blogspot.com/2011/02/end-of-roll-and-drum-for-full-circle.html">then boyfriend</a> to see them, and though the show was fantastic it marked the decline of both my fandom and relationship (how odd). When <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reveal_%28album%29">Reveal</a> was issued later that year I bought it - with my hard earned money, yes, but at least I had a steady job and wasn't juggling lunch and bus fares money. I even put the show ticket inside the CD box (right over the song list). But that was the last of REM I heard in a long time.<br />
<br />
<br />
Exactly why I stopped listening to REM is something I can't really explain. I admit I got a little irked with everything and everyone from the US with their troops going to Irak and Afghanistan (unfair, I know). <a href="http://crossingsofmymind.blogspot.com/2010/09/inexorable-but-permanent.html">My husband</a>, who came into my life in 2002, doesn't really like their music. And... I don't know, they're not background music anymore, wafting from the speakers in the house at all hours of day and night.<br />
<br />
Interestingly enough, that's a void no other band filled. Who knows, maybe I should unpack the box with CD's and give those a good listening. I'm sure they will all have passed the test of time, with honors.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-12174406809140241052011-09-19T10:38:00.003-03:002011-09-19T10:38:00.162-03:00Window to a windowless roomVery recently I found "the largest advertisement-free Blog in the world", <a href="http://www.postsecret.com/">PostSecret</a>. It's a website publishing items (usually postcards but also letters and objects) created and sent anonymously by people.<br />
<br />
There are all kinds of secrets, from banal and funny to deep and disturbing. I find most disconcerting... how someone could say or think or feel that, ever? The project is like a window open to a windowless place. I'm not sure if ones published every week are selected with one template (a certain amount of laughs, sex and death) but the ones where people tell about their loneliness, sadness and desperation really get to me.<br />
<br />
I'm not depressive and never contemplated suicide, but I admit being a little wary every Sunday morning when I read the blogroll. <br />
<br />
<br />
Yesterday this secret was published, and somehow made everything fall into place. It reads <i>If PostSecret has taught me anything, it is that heartache (of any kind) is not personal. It is human.</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD0x44PrbvQvkKThm6fwN3f6EeydwB4kvctWTsC-hK_Hs9nfLryPSK8jE8C-DEAsR8OMm8UFMT9Tposv6Qbv5PrdeAlWZEykr4SPUj5wH7yoHlc_C-ghICkq61fkzfdW8sxgaqApCA8sk/s1600/sufferingisawareness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD0x44PrbvQvkKThm6fwN3f6EeydwB4kvctWTsC-hK_Hs9nfLryPSK8jE8C-DEAsR8OMm8UFMT9Tposv6Qbv5PrdeAlWZEykr4SPUj5wH7yoHlc_C-ghICkq61fkzfdW8sxgaqApCA8sk/s320/sufferingisawareness.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Exactly.<i></i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>---</i><br />
Picture from PostSecret <a href="http://www.postsecret.com/2011/09/sunday-secrets_17.html">http://www.postsecret.com/2011/09/sunday-secrets_17.html</a><i><br />
</i>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-57488540022293380552011-09-12T11:37:00.002-03:002011-09-13T10:46:44.685-03:00Remembering the memoryAlthough I can pinpoint quite a few memorial sites and monuments I've visited in different parts of the world, my city even, those in the United States have impressed me the most.<br />
<br />
There seems to be an attitude, a cultural trait, an inclination to the action of remembering the dead that I can't quite make my own. Some memorials somehow felt like an apology, sometimes like an explanation. Sometimes I felt the memorial created causality rather than remarking or celebrating it. Because there is a memorial that we (whatever "we" means) are what we are (free, happy, able to settle here, etc.). Sometimes it's only the circumstance of death, an inevitable fact of life, that makes a person deserving of having his or her name etched in stone - this person died because of a tragic event beyond her will or control.<br />
<br />
Some tragedies beyond our will or control deserve a memorial, some don't. Probably the memorials are about the tragedies that lead us to reflect on our own mortality, that shake our deepest beliefs, I'm not sure really.<br />
<br />
But what is really striking about memorials in the US is that always, without fail, the people remembered are a part of a whole. They left behind family - parents, siblings, spouses, children; friends; relations; probably a documented work of body of some kind. They can be remembered because the rest, humans or deeds, are still alive.<br />
<br />
After I visited the Vietnam and Korea War Memorials in Washington DC and uploaded the pictures, a friend wrote back saying, "What about those killed by the soldiers in those faraway lands? If a person was killed and the whole village destroyed (documents proving existence included), there's nobody left to remember. It would be as if they had never existed".<br />
<br />
I'm not sure I'd dare to utter these thoughts anywhere near DC, but it's a valid question. I suppose the answer is, beyond a particular event or person, memorials are memory in practice. And that's something that can be started at any point of history.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-11080280401265627042011-08-29T12:43:00.001-03:002011-10-23T14:08:49.842-02:00Idea for a family photo album projectPeople usually organize their photo albums chronologically, i.e., first the pictures of one given year, then the next, and so on.<br />
<br />
But a while ago I thought it could be done by age of the photographed subject, or simply by subject. For example, a collection of family pictures of babies. Or first school day pictures. Or wedding photos. Regardless of the year or the generation, but always the same family.<br />
<br />
So far I've managed to collect one series of four babies. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHbL-QukDr1rdJRVV7nMBv5RcKmeE7ER63y6XUvEakf7ASPHcPspVK0VO2Ndw5CpTB6ANgZB53nPh0u_wy3t5EG-6OpukPuqAH9jXffUXYbCVNXKvqGH1sSUz_T_UbC5-QJh7WVO9D2Oc/s1600/1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHbL-QukDr1rdJRVV7nMBv5RcKmeE7ER63y6XUvEakf7ASPHcPspVK0VO2Ndw5CpTB6ANgZB53nPh0u_wy3t5EG-6OpukPuqAH9jXffUXYbCVNXKvqGH1sSUz_T_UbC5-QJh7WVO9D2Oc/s320/1920.jpg" width="229" /></a></div> 1920<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCK0IKkpOgf2RXcxkf2A_zgSucU4UrKb4R_hWe32MIgFcq-shO0vypiQeWcJqk_YmeJl51YPg9bmYvD_3aAbP8XCFNRrejOLq-PUwApgnTDgpBNYoFTFE4rKaq-rgFqaIL83cLLq0HMsA/s1600/1950.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCK0IKkpOgf2RXcxkf2A_zgSucU4UrKb4R_hWe32MIgFcq-shO0vypiQeWcJqk_YmeJl51YPg9bmYvD_3aAbP8XCFNRrejOLq-PUwApgnTDgpBNYoFTFE4rKaq-rgFqaIL83cLLq0HMsA/s320/1950.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> 1950<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb-a2h4tNbG-g-ZaJhikiUqO8p78C1yLiN3QgRTGttEKb933jI5bKh07H9qk7nBjeML8Oswr83BxGkhLzHgogjFBZy6yPyF_6dk4yfeVWC6POmGt42LaNRB8RthmCgvaI16V0EGPAM7Ws/s1600/1980.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb-a2h4tNbG-g-ZaJhikiUqO8p78C1yLiN3QgRTGttEKb933jI5bKh07H9qk7nBjeML8Oswr83BxGkhLzHgogjFBZy6yPyF_6dk4yfeVWC6POmGt42LaNRB8RthmCgvaI16V0EGPAM7Ws/s320/1980.jpg" width="295" /></a></div> 1980<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9TQORtOeFcZBqGBAUns2QgtDE0l9cEgPnH-HrL4fJ2tr-g6sI3DcfGFi10VdYLt7JfNSvqYdEbCeofv1SiOKkzVerKHl2Rtm1Uf8A7qq4qkDUnfmQhR0htwXvC4GBqNBgp5jvPPoG0Ys/s1600/2011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9TQORtOeFcZBqGBAUns2QgtDE0l9cEgPnH-HrL4fJ2tr-g6sI3DcfGFi10VdYLt7JfNSvqYdEbCeofv1SiOKkzVerKHl2Rtm1Uf8A7qq4qkDUnfmQhR0htwXvC4GBqNBgp5jvPPoG0Ys/s320/2011.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>2011.<br />
<br />
<br />
Each baby is a parent of the baby in the next picture, except for the picture with two boys where it's the youngest who's the father (and grandfather) of the babies in the next pictures. These pictures give a hint of physical similarities (full dark haired heads, tiny mouths and rounded cheeks seem a pattern, although photography can be the ultimate lying device), of reproductive patterns (that 30 years loop can't be just a coincidence), fashions and... who knows? With time we'll get more clues to read series like this one.<br />
<br />
By the way, there is a picture of all four of us at the same time. I think it just says how precious life is, and how strong family bonds can be.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmwNY9McxADmNzeFW2SZDilVbe0jf1Gno65VC2DSoL-0WjxE0d_WOPEWNtn_Fs9EUYyhkl-MME2UoJCyOvvVKKAINjvMZRVdJJ0m5xI2PbCslokqBFPtVgNEAbGyHfJX0dua066tvYBX4/s1600/2010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmwNY9McxADmNzeFW2SZDilVbe0jf1Gno65VC2DSoL-0WjxE0d_WOPEWNtn_Fs9EUYyhkl-MME2UoJCyOvvVKKAINjvMZRVdJJ0m5xI2PbCslokqBFPtVgNEAbGyHfJX0dua066tvYBX4/s320/2010.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
And probably that we grow up to look only like ourselves, and nobody else.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-75087508363546651522011-08-22T11:15:00.000-03:002011-08-22T11:15:18.885-03:00August monthAugust. We've passed the half year mark, so it's typical to think about all those things one thought one would do but obviously still hasn't - and probably won't, ever. And feels bad about it.<br />
<br />
Given that at this point of my life I'm not really counting time in year lapses but rather roll with it on a daily basis, I really should pass - but this self flagellating mood is still here. So I'm going to pick on it.<br />
<br />
It's not a goal or anything really useful, but turns out I opened a Twitter account a while ago and dropped it because I didn't understand how it's used. Mine is not really an informed or critical decision, it's that I really couldn't catch the gist of how it goes, of what's one supposed to do other than reading other people's tweets. The noise is unbearable - it's only pieces of information repeating things I already know or pointing to facebook (useless if you don't have an account there), and the "retweeting" function just... well, are you supposed to repeat what other people has said? On what purpose? Don't we sound as idiots doing that?<br />
<br />
I felt stupid every time I logged into Twitter. So August: notch yourself another win.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-67051059813593827842011-08-15T10:43:00.000-03:002011-08-15T10:43:26.042-03:00Is this worth it?Lately I've been putting an extra effort into daily cooking. I'm trying new recipes (mostly twists to the same old things) and giving the classics a whirl - so I can't say we're exactly pushing our taste buds with exotic ingredients all too often. The goal here is not so much to try new things but to avoid the <i>what's for dinner </i>panic attack and that <i>we've converted to soup religion </i>feeling.<br />
<br />
<br />
The main difference is forethought. Planning. Or just premeditation. And I never premeditate enough time to follow the steps or calculate exactly how much food I'm making, so it might be a lot of work for one and a half meals worth of servings, or we end up eating the same thing 4 or 5 times in a row, and on top of that, burned. Or the week takes us for dinners out and the food sits, waiting in the fridge, until past its prime. Or it's just... well, less than perfect anyway.<br />
<br />
So I can't help wondering, is spending so much time and energy every night cooking, really, truly, worth it? The time doing all the washing up... isn't it better to, right, plan ahead what to eat and when, but rely more on food made by others and stay with the basics like rice and boiled eggs? It sounds stupid, almost, but the thought of last night's burned pan that's still sitting and waiting... makes me think it twice. Isn't it the case for you, too?Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-87991842131056389112011-08-08T15:47:00.000-03:002011-08-08T15:47:39.593-03:00Driver! Follow that actor!Everyone, meet Mads Mikkelsen (pronounced something like "max miggelsen").<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCyRsfThR01eoZBaP4Silz9nIl7XT81_PF4gBagEQuohTATIvQ8_skyguqC81w-Nc3XeXYxHEnIetcPPELp9cjscEYNuiuYigoiNa0L69-7T-6J25jUASU3gHRrQYfoo6AoqG3FZjkWs8/s1600/2010-07-15-mads_mikkelsen_99.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCyRsfThR01eoZBaP4Silz9nIl7XT81_PF4gBagEQuohTATIvQ8_skyguqC81w-Nc3XeXYxHEnIetcPPELp9cjscEYNuiuYigoiNa0L69-7T-6J25jUASU3gHRrQYfoo6AoqG3FZjkWs8/s320/2010-07-15-mads_mikkelsen_99.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Picture from <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/debra-levine/love-among-the-geniuses_b_647878.html">here</a>. <br />
<br />
I first registered him as the bad guy in <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0381061/">Casino Royale</a>, a.k.a. "James Bond begins". Not particularly a memorable character, though interestingly creepy. <br />
<br />
He's in an Oscar nominated Danish film (I try to watch the European nominees as they're usually excellent), which we watched as soon as it fell in our hands. That's when I decided to follow this actor.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0457655/"><br />
</a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0457655/"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF8Op6PuJZDzCSbGipiynnc-TOE1FpTaII0-VwwhzVcdz5AFiga3dYmQ7X8janWDbV8dbUwbrBNfgRZcWXOUBHXgkFsuyUxOxWPdv8il88Ykd5QyKnRKktMFiagqatGIa9nWBuLWvyeqs/s1600/after_the_wedding_ver2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF8Op6PuJZDzCSbGipiynnc-TOE1FpTaII0-VwwhzVcdz5AFiga3dYmQ7X8janWDbV8dbUwbrBNfgRZcWXOUBHXgkFsuyUxOxWPdv8il88Ykd5QyKnRKktMFiagqatGIa9nWBuLWvyeqs/s320/after_the_wedding_ver2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Pic from <a href="http://cineinternational.blogspot.com/2011/05/after-wedding-danish-2006-review.html">here</a>.<br />
<br />
Adam's apples is pitch black among dark humor comedies, but it's great. I really don't know how it manages to avoid bad taste, but it does, and it leaves laughing at yourself.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0418455/"></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0418455/"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXyHdm2xad-4naMw4XnouWuRWU8FJ-jLVTMmRP6D0afH9lmCgweBaVUTrKh7a12FTnOtn-iFbZl_EYbgvKpc275o1WqNl59j5mPejaFk_vI-lC5F-itFqDfQjmSSE8njDQzPPVRCYuQIc/s1600/adams_aebler.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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Oh boy, the doctor and his clinical studies still elicits more than a chuckle from me. The neonazi who has to bake an apple pie, his fellow, ahem, interns and his fellow neonazis all interacting with each other and with Ivan the priest, are just priceless. How I wish other directors and producers could ridicule evil so nimbly.<br />
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Pic from <a href="http://www.ahot.dk/film/film.asp?filmid=449">here</a>.<br />
<br />
The most bizarre film I found following Mads Mikkelsen is "<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0339806/">Torremolinos 73</a>". Franco's Spain meets homemade porn meets Ingmar Bergman... what can come up from that input?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrTN86J_ZiY1faDlm3Vazkur5KMbN_AuA-FSEMGS467rB1jXQ_gHeBJ5O1jSRhHpXkBWTZ-EaUGD3O1ZvtK7blvNS_n85SY1vlQtsJX5JRK29MiLTCmEiWe_etc2YQDy0xEe3g4JaQLFw/s1600/Torremolinos-73-2003-%25E2%2580%2593-Hollywood-Movie-Watch-Online.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrTN86J_ZiY1faDlm3Vazkur5KMbN_AuA-FSEMGS467rB1jXQ_gHeBJ5O1jSRhHpXkBWTZ-EaUGD3O1ZvtK7blvNS_n85SY1vlQtsJX5JRK29MiLTCmEiWe_etc2YQDy0xEe3g4JaQLFw/s320/Torremolinos-73-2003-%25E2%2580%2593-Hollywood-Movie-Watch-Online.jpg" width="224" /></a></div><br />
Pic from <a href="http://www.allmovieportal.com/m/2003_Torremolinos_73.html">here</a>.<br />
<br />
A story with hilarious absurd, sound development and a surprisingly tender end. That's what. <br />
<br />
There are still plenty out there to watch from this actor and they are (or will be) in our play list. But the best thing is having found an actor who can pick his movies and makes our decisions easier. Thank you Mads! Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-53760620779187375112011-07-26T11:29:00.000-03:002011-07-26T11:29:27.073-03:00Bereavement and comfortYesterday morning I went to a good friend's mother's funeral. She had been sick for a short time and it had became apparent a few weeks ago that her end was near, so, they said, she had came into terms with her own passing.<br />
<br />
<br />
Still, her relatives and acquaintances were in that state of shock and disbelief that often surrounds death, and of course, knew that the hard time of mourning and healing was just about to start.<br />
<br />
I spent a moment talking to her brother in law, my friend's paternal uncle. We spoke about my friend's son, aged 5, who will be bereft of his favorite grandma and frolicking partner. We spoke about my friend's father, who passed away suddenly at age 44 more than a decade ago, and held his wife as the love of his life. We spoke about her current sentimental partner, who had found peace in their relationship after having raised three daughters on his own and now is devastated. We spoke about my friend, whom I often refer to as spartan - they do as a Prussian soldier, and how she has faced more than a fair share of weathering times. We spoke and drank mate, a symbol of friendship and communion if there ever was one, though I'm not much of a mate drinker myself.<br />
<br />
After an hour or so I left - everyday life was calling and it was a Monday morning after all. As the bus rode to my job I felt the familiar stomach cramps I have after having some mate - too harsh for my tea accustomed loins, it seems. Still, it was good to share a mate with the uncle. In spite of those light cramps, it gave some comfort in bereavement.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-18730152628647730092011-07-11T10:26:00.004-03:002011-07-11T12:38:14.652-03:00PrerrogativeMothers have been known to, on occasion, make purchases for themselves thinly disguised as for their children, particularly their daughters. This is, buying lovely things they love in a little hope their children will too - but it's OK if they don't anyway.<br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1463742839"><br />
</a><br />
<a href="http://crossingsofmymind.blogspot.com/2011/03/mondays-post.html">Early in March I was going to mention it</a> but it didn't seem right. Last Saturday while I went for a walk dropped by a bookstore and purchased this color book. For my 10 months old daughter, of course. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbJ0biKic_3_Om5ZKBG_Ss8JW7xOcawkKhZa-L7YP_MFno20d4SRZEeeLZj7Honc6r_V_qjXbFQduIYvKwpBT-iAihdoBCpGwGJ2lx1pim4TzxNtIBZX0a3GJw6Q_EKqgVdR7HWyerUZQ/s1600/skay01.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbJ0biKic_3_Om5ZKBG_Ss8JW7xOcawkKhZa-L7YP_MFno20d4SRZEeeLZj7Honc6r_V_qjXbFQduIYvKwpBT-iAihdoBCpGwGJ2lx1pim4TzxNtIBZX0a3GJw6Q_EKqgVdR7HWyerUZQ/s320/skay01.JPG" width="212" /></a></div>It really impressed me that this isn't a reinterpretation of sorts of the color books published during the 80's. My sister and I had a couple and loved them so much that we preferred making photocopies and coloring the same pictures over again. With watercolors, pencils, fibers, gouache even, and a time or two I think my mother joined us.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK1zufcMxG-tmbgoAtt8QICobM2vGxv6wI5Jv3N7MGHdcpKfFj_1RHuB9-rC60mXTeKcxzqaYAdjfIJ1sSOcQ8YWyuqRpl5oRuA9QIXF1dNgRjfaVK6DDOqY5uO26lZZNyNfeiyzv870o/s1600/skay02.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhQ13gsyGIsIFXepx6yuzT78XcfiliUafry5aEPHGGw0i881-z6Vk_oYgwPVy5jyxyzvocU8vzB7T19w245uAxXdwea6_UPoKbpJf_ALODUCU4cbCG9cXS52vEIlLAonvrz52_bfztMxg/s1600/skay03.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhQ13gsyGIsIFXepx6yuzT78XcfiliUafry5aEPHGGw0i881-z6Vk_oYgwPVy5jyxyzvocU8vzB7T19w245uAxXdwea6_UPoKbpJf_ALODUCU4cbCG9cXS52vEIlLAonvrz52_bfztMxg/s320/skay03.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK1zufcMxG-tmbgoAtt8QICobM2vGxv6wI5Jv3N7MGHdcpKfFj_1RHuB9-rC60mXTeKcxzqaYAdjfIJ1sSOcQ8YWyuqRpl5oRuA9QIXF1dNgRjfaVK6DDOqY5uO26lZZNyNfeiyzv870o/s1600/skay02.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK1zufcMxG-tmbgoAtt8QICobM2vGxv6wI5Jv3N7MGHdcpKfFj_1RHuB9-rC60mXTeKcxzqaYAdjfIJ1sSOcQ8YWyuqRpl5oRuA9QIXF1dNgRjfaVK6DDOqY5uO26lZZNyNfeiyzv870o/s320/skay02.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I was saying, these aren't any updated version. It's virtually the same thing.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh87ECJt3InIeZnTrfWg12bj7R0rjHkqCZn-3ADZlO8uGXte_VoYneqE8AaEh7ztMjL4Ybdv09YskNEtoGuzPaRgsWNz-CVYPHaS8sKarsOrRZXi1B7xqK1EY5r1-P22pFjfXxjH1MYya0/s1600/skay04.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh87ECJt3InIeZnTrfWg12bj7R0rjHkqCZn-3ADZlO8uGXte_VoYneqE8AaEh7ztMjL4Ybdv09YskNEtoGuzPaRgsWNz-CVYPHaS8sKarsOrRZXi1B7xqK1EY5r1-P22pFjfXxjH1MYya0/s320/skay04.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Except for the center page, which has stickers with pictures and with spaces - ostensibly to write your name and stick on school notebooks. In my time, those were sold separately and a bit hard to find, if I'm not mistaken.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyDUOPLHGPErKyBvowam6Fz7mPAPlSRGVypFOeYNrzwYeEu5G-Wrd5OTq0oj5aL1D6Oh22M23jVB5-hjNnhjl9H4hsmZ_l_gOIeLTVrQv58fkU3Fk4vwGBA4bB_SjmXwP4BH2r6B1c-nA/s1600/skay05.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyDUOPLHGPErKyBvowam6Fz7mPAPlSRGVypFOeYNrzwYeEu5G-Wrd5OTq0oj5aL1D6Oh22M23jVB5-hjNnhjl9H4hsmZ_l_gOIeLTVrQv58fkU3Fk4vwGBA4bB_SjmXwP4BH2r6B1c-nA/s320/skay05.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
The girl in the bike was my favorite picture of all time. Thank you, girl in the bike, for coming back!<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Sarah Kay was a bit of a mystery back then, and the internet shows she still is. Her biography doesn't seem to have been updated for at least 25 years and sounds tragic as ever - these depictions of a timeless and idyllic childhood were created to entertain a very sick girl, the daughter of the artist. There doesn't seem to be any new designs aside the batch published with the sticker album "<a href="http://www.monchhichi.net/pi.htm">I love you</a>" by Figurine Panini, and there seems to be a lot of knockoffs and non franchised items. This book in particular, though, seems to.<br />
<br />
A little more on Sarah Kay can be read <a href="http://sushmarg.blogspot.com/2011/04/works-of-sarah-kay.html">here</a>.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-6916926090922118322011-07-04T10:34:00.083-03:002011-07-04T10:34:00.486-03:00At Sabina'sIt seems that I can't have enough of blogs of people documenting their daily home lives with pictures. There are many and I'm always on the outlook for more, trying to reach out for people living life in different places - so far I've located many from Scandinavian countries, some of Europe and North America, and none from the rest of the world. I'm keeping my eyes open, though.<br />
<br />
Regardless of the geographic place where they originate, most life documenting blogs in my reading list have one outstanding thing in common. While people show scenes of their daily lives (their dining rooms, kitchens, gardens, food they've made, articles of clothing, household items), they rarely or never post a recognizable picture of themselves or their family members. I guess there are things they don't want to share and that's, of course, fine with me.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUhTocXoXaZOJDBVQhuuDMAW5_Y0TSfWRruq5JYmw7C1CCS-NQaO_pAys64hx2rlhSqNV2rtuOF7X4ShY-u5ZMG_r5yQjqtDZAiDZtWtQBF9xjvwVWhNGBP7iw14hmKpXpR1Hdg_t6QFM/s1600/10.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUhTocXoXaZOJDBVQhuuDMAW5_Y0TSfWRruq5JYmw7C1CCS-NQaO_pAys64hx2rlhSqNV2rtuOF7X4ShY-u5ZMG_r5yQjqtDZAiDZtWtQBF9xjvwVWhNGBP7iw14hmKpXpR1Hdg_t6QFM/s320/10.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
There is one person, however, who shares snippets of her daily wheres and whats focusing on people rather inanimate objects. Her photography is not about decorating and styling - or very subtly so, but about people. Presumably friends and family, of stances of life, her stimulating brain snacks (that's <a href="http://sabinacudic.blogspot.com/p/about.html">her own words</a>) give a dash of color to my mornings and, interestingly, feel a lot like pieces of my own life, past or present. That's <a href="http://sabinacudic.blogspot.com/">Sabina Ćudić</a> publishing from Sarajevo, Bosnia, a place I know embarrassingly little about (so let's say I know nothing but the map location).<br />
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It's funny that I think I could be friends with Sabina, or at least, we would have many things in common to talk about. From what she shows of her apartment, I think we could bump into each other in a bookstore aisle, in a flea market stall or sitting in the next table in a restaurant. The strange familiarity from blogging images rather than words.<br />
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***<br />
<br />
Here's an <a href="http://decor8blog.com/2011/03/24/corners-of-home-from-bosnia-with-love/">interesting note in Decor8</a>, where I first heard of Sabina. Photo by Sabina Ćudić, used with permission.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-50763954097769858062011-06-27T10:34:00.027-03:002011-06-27T10:34:00.572-03:00Just becauseWhen I was a student in elementary school (maybe 7 or 8 years old) my mother struck a deal with both my sister and I.<br />
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Given that we were average to good students, that we had good health, that we lived within walking distance to school, and that really, almost never missed school, once a year, we could not go <i>just because</i>. Maybe we wanted to stay home playing, maybe because it was rainy or too cold, or... I don't know, we just didn't want to.<br />
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It was a wise move, I saw then and see now. In one move she got ridden of the combined whining of two, taught some responsibility and gave herself some peace of mind. And I personally remember those stay at home days very fondly, watching shows on TV I'd only heard about, watching a movie on the VHS (a definite highlight), playing with my dolls or reading.<br />
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***<br />
<br />
<br />
We're in winter break right now, a two week lapse when kids all ages don't have classes. Unfortunately I don't have a break (I might be able to use my yearly holiday, but we're encouraged to do that in January), yet, we're allowed to miss any two days. Just because.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-19656393590728075902011-06-13T10:25:00.090-03:002011-06-30T13:24:36.813-03:00What's cooking?Food and what we eat is not only a question of where in the world we live, it's also a question of cultural values and traditions, which sometimes really don't have anything to do with much.<br />
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We spent some time in Minnesota in the USA, and Granada in the south of Spain, and cooking was sometimes difficult for reasons we wouldn't have foreseen in a million years. So, for you to bear in mind if you're coming to Uruguay (or the south of Brazil, or Argentina for that matter), or simply to think about it, here are a few things you'll typically find in a kitchen in Uruguay.<br />
<br />
1. We seem to nurse an unrequited love for ice cream containers, which are found pretty much everywhere. Pictured: under the sink container waiting for an hydraulic disaster coming from the sink.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI_A4WP29Zq4_sQCxHH0K2GzhAFQfD3yTNHMv3vSxjBwrRBKV_tNqBqjCTCHCf2xt3yWycZAqjzrcpSvBaG8Ets6sowdA0AiVQb_JvF6IENvSpF94wqzm80yRRIXxIvu2XSIqKiiJn0VU/s1600/blog010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI_A4WP29Zq4_sQCxHH0K2GzhAFQfD3yTNHMv3vSxjBwrRBKV_tNqBqjCTCHCf2xt3yWycZAqjzrcpSvBaG8Ets6sowdA0AiVQb_JvF6IENvSpF94wqzm80yRRIXxIvu2XSIqKiiJn0VU/s320/blog010.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>I say the love is unrequited because oftentimes they're not up to the task assigned. <br />
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2. Butane gas bottles. They're the source of heat of choice and they're usually located in plain sight next to the stove. Ours in hidden under the sink, making company to the ice cream container.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtXxxOxhhnp9Fi9Rsan4afGu_hBHvwa33bUOg6yiImGeXoPqA2HVFz04XZSIu7h1SLHTanyEz9EpEi8NtnhZZJfnpok_Scjpu_i74oC7LvcuuXTf3StaAHvBslFw9AvAMDO62FHe6s7XI/s1600/blog009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtXxxOxhhnp9Fi9Rsan4afGu_hBHvwa33bUOg6yiImGeXoPqA2HVFz04XZSIu7h1SLHTanyEz9EpEi8NtnhZZJfnpok_Scjpu_i74oC7LvcuuXTf3StaAHvBslFw9AvAMDO62FHe6s7XI/s320/blog009.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
They don't grow on trees so one needs to know what to do when the contents end.<br />
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3. While newer stoves models contain some flickering system, most people don't own a newer model. So the matches are very common.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCkEWTbPA60IAlQDwEjv6jzdY7cK3wr9LEsoWDMYMaAqP21qxKCsMuHKQDwcYt4kNb_JEQApm1U_BfPw5QWngeHXZ_qow562zYI52b4UjeYK0FHBnCMeiCeUS9JjWAr3mKESdgJaACzlo/s1600/blog001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCkEWTbPA60IAlQDwEjv6jzdY7cK3wr9LEsoWDMYMaAqP21qxKCsMuHKQDwcYt4kNb_JEQApm1U_BfPw5QWngeHXZ_qow562zYI52b4UjeYK0FHBnCMeiCeUS9JjWAr3mKESdgJaACzlo/s320/blog001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
When we lived in Minnesota in a rental home, we weren't aware of that system being available in our stove so we bought a lot of matches we never used. Silly us.<br />
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4. Oregano. The best selling dried herb in local markets. We were a little surprised and bereft when we couldn't find it that easily in Spanish or Minnesotan markets.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB_E2aniComQZz_no8aCGwnlMBTCo-06rtbZOO9bGEnkm4d9zVtvDS_u5iW4DB8aCIRqSW_R6mEIHSIDKlJB9YO5fQMlQP4ECp-KonLD3vbYdOlniQt3I6PZybEpVQHG6kRALAWzzPieY/s1600/blog002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB_E2aniComQZz_no8aCGwnlMBTCo-06rtbZOO9bGEnkm4d9zVtvDS_u5iW4DB8aCIRqSW_R6mEIHSIDKlJB9YO5fQMlQP4ECp-KonLD3vbYdOlniQt3I6PZybEpVQHG6kRALAWzzPieY/s320/blog002.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Tarragon, thyme and rosemary just aren't the same.<br />
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5. Repurposed containers. Pictured: a cookie jar containing cocoa powder, a jam jar containing oregano, a Nescafé bottle containing bread zippers (here they are not a clamp, they're a little wire coated in plastic and I collect them, just in case I need them some time).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl00co2WeRPdVGO29pddZbDfmgzoc_A4AmEEe5lRRho1F24C7wYHVIrIBu85o1-FWPi_XCRtN254z2Kz93YfRS3jBcW52jAVDM6d1geiDH31O36ybZQ0-A0O85OscJi192U5rolky0BJ8/s1600/blog003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl00co2WeRPdVGO29pddZbDfmgzoc_A4AmEEe5lRRho1F24C7wYHVIrIBu85o1-FWPi_XCRtN254z2Kz93YfRS3jBcW52jAVDM6d1geiDH31O36ybZQ0-A0O85OscJi192U5rolky0BJ8/s320/blog003.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
If you're a guest, be ready for spending some time guessing what's where. <br />
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6. Cothespins. The weather allows to air dry clothes year round (unless it rains, of course), so clothespins are a common household item. They're usually found applied ad nauseam in the kitchen. Pictured: seasalt, confetti, baking powder.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXRqG1VUxi35bsIuXClMFxNFi_bHswGC2eR-EhmEbv0FZ1Lh9IKhXlW_-4b2VNqPOnWswjGhjxw8Jt0jid7MxgAVreFg4MV31xHbn52zSa9h-QQoItyBIAzhWzL98TUrq5lsbHM4DCAzs/s1600/blog004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXRqG1VUxi35bsIuXClMFxNFi_bHswGC2eR-EhmEbv0FZ1Lh9IKhXlW_-4b2VNqPOnWswjGhjxw8Jt0jid7MxgAVreFg4MV31xHbn52zSa9h-QQoItyBIAzhWzL98TUrq5lsbHM4DCAzs/s320/blog004.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
7. <a href="http://www.crandon.edu.uy/portal/hgxpp001.aspx?80,31,447,O,S,0,MNU;E;83;4;MNU;,">Crandon's cooking book</a>. The quintessential uruguayan cooking book, it's brilliantly written and the recipes reflect the local taste well, but don't require any exclusive local ingredient. Matter of fact, many recipes are of anglosaxon tradition.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-k0DlB2cAf5gjMz5MrpcMtBrNTZvJFMvQohPohxC7EfMEy9yd8pjE9L-NIUEOdwvPggfMcve1Lad1XcrGQUBAgUx-LdrAgSk322ltQApvCZ5kQ4FaM8EOLnwMHnB5Oj74hkxfGEeArMc/s1600/blog005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-k0DlB2cAf5gjMz5MrpcMtBrNTZvJFMvQohPohxC7EfMEy9yd8pjE9L-NIUEOdwvPggfMcve1Lad1XcrGQUBAgUx-LdrAgSk322ltQApvCZ5kQ4FaM8EOLnwMHnB5Oj74hkxfGEeArMc/s320/blog005.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Mine was a wedding gift, and I think my mom's was too. I know my grand mother's wasn't, but it was one of the first editions and I wish I had claimed it when I had the chance.<br />
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8. Accoutrements for red meat preparation. Uruguay being one of the <a href="http://kids.britannica.com/comptons/article-204421/meat">top consumers of red meat per capita in the world</a>, the required equipment to prepare a good steak, stew, barbeque or meatloaf are typically found in home kitchens.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia5lXmNAXaKH_jjVd9tYJn51avLAJTLP76szfzYeP_4NeEFwfsoT3BXNbtsCBg6OBHj1P5drbe5YSrvORyf7RnQ1Uo9s3U6gXzjCMoB35dxRvYOteBmilT_PxZNyS5hMMNYR1oNkIGE0Y/s1600/blog006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia5lXmNAXaKH_jjVd9tYJn51avLAJTLP76szfzYeP_4NeEFwfsoT3BXNbtsCBg6OBHj1P5drbe5YSrvORyf7RnQ1Uo9s3U6gXzjCMoB35dxRvYOteBmilT_PxZNyS5hMMNYR1oNkIGE0Y/s320/blog006.jpg" width="320" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The knife point tells I'm not very good at storing my wares. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>9. Milk is sold exclusively in one liter (1 qt) plastic bags. While some people transfer the milk into a better looking container, most people simply put the bag into a jar. Also, the bags containing red are for whole milk, and the blue or green are for skimmed milk.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh75De0kpIe6SRkkAHbB7MZW3lYaZNnPNKe8RmJmO40IsRE4YzLR9rddulvMomGjfMJUrpdfAl1wdg8R98HVRNEG02huYUuJNxtjKkCAp2JxSJlLgnLi2qJflB-s2hZ3-Xh7JX0YvzUJ7I/s1600/blog007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh75De0kpIe6SRkkAHbB7MZW3lYaZNnPNKe8RmJmO40IsRE4YzLR9rddulvMomGjfMJUrpdfAl1wdg8R98HVRNEG02huYUuJNxtjKkCAp2JxSJlLgnLi2qJflB-s2hZ3-Xh7JX0YvzUJ7I/s320/blog007.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
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But don't worry, the jars are sold in markets and cost barely above a liter or two of milk.<br />
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10. A friend from Chile said he was surprised Uruguayans don't seem too fond of sweets unless it's dulce de leche or quince jam.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFU7j0ZGNAZCNknrFKFnMaf67BVvENXId0Cdjy718J8w2qHDsQ7qcepiPSS7Xoav9R1vrXjTRvkMbCHWsKUctIbW-okid7qO3pjtzTYxyBIt8cGtJXCxFh-0u3JQRbv_QNin_K_F1cBh8/s1600/blog008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFU7j0ZGNAZCNknrFKFnMaf67BVvENXId0Cdjy718J8w2qHDsQ7qcepiPSS7Xoav9R1vrXjTRvkMbCHWsKUctIbW-okid7qO3pjtzTYxyBIt8cGtJXCxFh-0u3JQRbv_QNin_K_F1cBh8/s320/blog008.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
In that case, there is no limits for sweetness.<br />
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Update: If you found me from I link I posted in <a href="http://chezlarsson.com/myblog/2011/06/number-of-boxes.html">Chez Larsson</a>, welcome, thank you, and know that I've never done that before or plan on doing it again ever.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-82711375862989301962011-06-06T10:34:00.050-03:002011-06-06T23:11:39.239-03:00(Just a little) peace of mindLately I've been wondering and regretting not having kept my childhood books. My sister and I had quite a few and I loved them so much... we had books with stories, with pictures (with and without text) and activities. At one time or another we donated them in batches to libraries or schools, and there were only <a href="http://crossingsofmymind.blogspot.com/2011/05/metaphors-of-good-and-evil-for-children.html">a few</a> that apparently were worth the shelf real estate value.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLoBenQ8GOKp8HEakOCto8IanvA35PZYIRxQuLtVbGDBbdlyHaU8buIsDJ2l_z40UnDz9GzmZmNMHjNFuXAQh95K-ZCfA96VkKUF3AoTnDCTjw4jDsYVtVyaz2LMD_LM_hYSTPqlFll20/s1600/IMGP1406.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLoBenQ8GOKp8HEakOCto8IanvA35PZYIRxQuLtVbGDBbdlyHaU8buIsDJ2l_z40UnDz9GzmZmNMHjNFuXAQh95K-ZCfA96VkKUF3AoTnDCTjw4jDsYVtVyaz2LMD_LM_hYSTPqlFll20/s320/IMGP1406.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The ones that survived are good to revisit in a rainy afternoon but I doubt my daughter will enjoy them as much as I did, because they're just... very old. Children's books these days are really different, and while I don't underestimate (beforehand!) my child's ability to appreciate old fashioned ones, I don't think her sensibility will lean towards vintage.<br />
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This thought gives me some peace of mind. Had I kept them all they'd be a bunch of yellowish, musty smelling old fashioned books that my child may or may not appreciate, rendering the whole preservation endeavor a little pointless.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ439xVX3MBd_IwfM-DM0MBuF-t9BZWZMHG3YgfDy4qbcY0dz6hv6Dr8v7eNSg1bC4iX1X9d8Jva_yJGq_oDm1ItWdHH1kLMtm0pirlKAyMIPOA7BQgqv_k4oPGzwVxhRqEQ51dqtufZQ/s1600/IMGP1401.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ439xVX3MBd_IwfM-DM0MBuF-t9BZWZMHG3YgfDy4qbcY0dz6hv6Dr8v7eNSg1bC4iX1X9d8Jva_yJGq_oDm1ItWdHH1kLMtm0pirlKAyMIPOA7BQgqv_k4oPGzwVxhRqEQ51dqtufZQ/s320/IMGP1401.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
And contrived as it may sound, not having a good starting library at home might be the excuse I was waiting for to jump on children's libraries and bookstores around town. Because, seriously, is there a better place to spend your time and money?Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-27006793723625485412011-05-30T10:25:00.074-03:002011-06-30T13:25:31.757-03:00Grandpa goes to HollywoodThis is my paternal grandfather, or at least this is how he used to look around the time he married my grandmother.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjfO_OB_kROoAP6WQPGhcyZVEmcFpebKtxr4N07tJNjteLnHkCvuxhMXjsEj9alWKZe1oJD1eRErvYa08p1tfJCXwJOmI5B67LH9XlL5y697ruyGWvu59h44UFQjBrYPMcpZA0J9otnuM/s1600/enrique_1941.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjfO_OB_kROoAP6WQPGhcyZVEmcFpebKtxr4N07tJNjteLnHkCvuxhMXjsEj9alWKZe1oJD1eRErvYa08p1tfJCXwJOmI5B67LH9XlL5y697ruyGWvu59h44UFQjBrYPMcpZA0J9otnuM/s320/enrique_1941.jpg" width="222" /></a></div>Enrique, that was his name, had many jobs but only one employer in his life, the meat packing factory <a href="http://www.casahistoria.net/fray_bentos.htm">Frigorífico Anglo</a><a href="http://www.argentinaindependent.com/tag/corned-beef/"> of Fray Bentos</a>. He was born in one of the ranches where the livestock was raised, son to the foreman - in that limbo of the ranks of power, not exactly a plain soldier but neither a <i>gringo</i>, but soon started working in the factory as just another worker.<br />
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The tales from the work at the plant are very interesting - for example, management wouldn't allow a trade union but tried really hard to keep their workers happy by giving them ample benefits. If a worker was found trying to create turmoil he (or she) would be fired immediately, but had the chance to be rehired at the lowest entry level. When the demand for the product was high, the cuts weren't particularly, ahem, what you'd call "selected". While accidents were unusual, probably one soldier or two may have found a finger in their rations. Oh well.<br />
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Everyday work memorabilia may be fading with the memories of their protagonists, now frail elderly citizens in a sleepy town. The memory of the star product of the company, the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corned_beef#United_Kingdom">corned beef</a>, however, will be harder to wipe off.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibWgMRk-gWJF4FM3ob2PtOXZAZXg6O2qvh_fidW7pJH9XbOUh4vst5l4JcQgfzFpemstMolr0cG32ewBE9o2OqZrJbUxBZTw__SIv-VDvp8iEvM_eCPS8n7AtwBs7JunJHnYcTVYfN_Gs/s1600/4656_1T.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibWgMRk-gWJF4FM3ob2PtOXZAZXg6O2qvh_fidW7pJH9XbOUh4vst5l4JcQgfzFpemstMolr0cG32ewBE9o2OqZrJbUxBZTw__SIv-VDvp8iEvM_eCPS8n7AtwBs7JunJHnYcTVYfN_Gs/s320/4656_1T.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Bully beef and biscuits were the main field rations of the British Army from the Boer War to World War II, says <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corned_beef">Wikipedia</a><span>, which means that the little oblong can with the red tag is a given in movies of British wartime, from that time or reconstructions. Canspotting, if there is such word, is almost a sport when I watch those films. </span><br />
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<span>In <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0116209/">The English Patient</a>, I believe it's a can of Anglo's corned beef that Ralph Fiennes' character gives to Kristin Scott Thomas' when he leaves her in the cave. There's also another little red one in <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0082432/">Gallipoli</a>, in the scene where Mel Gibson runs through the trenches. I'm certain that I've seen in many other times but unfortunately, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/">IMDB</a> doesn't allow searches for props like corned beef cans, and still pictures of those movies don't pay particular attention to them.</span><br />
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<span>That doesn't really matter, because part of the fun, the rare fun still unspoiled by the Google almighty, is trying to collect such quick sights. And whenever I do, I say aloud to whomever might be hearing, "<i>My grandpa could have been the one to pack that can</i>". And it feels really good. </span><br />
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Corned beef picture from <a href="http://www.prensamercosur.com.ar/apm/nota_completa.php?idnota=4656">here.</a>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-61829682541580497292011-05-23T10:34:00.083-03:002011-05-23T10:34:00.687-03:00WishlistingWhile I'm not a big fan of lists I like to write down series of things I'd like to acquire. Once I thought they might inspire other people to draw inspiration for presents but it never worked that way, so they're non essentials I plan to buy one day, maybe.<br />
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Writing down wishlists is an interest exercise. It seems to be a relief to that imprecise buzz of anxiety that fuels shopping on an impulse, and later, they're a good document of priorities of a certain moment.<br />
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Usually most of the items in my wishlist stay as wishes. A list from when I was 15 years old had many CDs of artists I haven't cared about for a long time, and items of clothing brands that don't exist anymore. Another wishlist from when I was 25 is mostly related to an apartment we don't live in anymore. The one from my 30th year was related to Minnesota, a place we're not likely to visit anytime soon. My most recent wishlist has one immaterial among physical items : I want some time out.<br />
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Sometimes I wonder what if I had those wishes made true. Maybe when I was 15 I'd have had a little more self confidence because of a nicer wardrobe (I doubt it). Maybe when I was 25 I'd have had a more comfortable home (I don't doubt that for a second). Maybe when I was 30 I would have lived in a prettier home (only probable). Still, I didn't have those things and life went on... did it make me less happy? I don't think so. Would I have better judgment when it comes to actual shopping? I'm sure I would.<br />
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The downside of buying according to wishlists is that one tends to feel challenged when needing to make a decision on the spot. When going to a store far from home, or a clearance sale, or a second hand store, places where coming back later is not an option, there are chances one ends up getting something less than ideal. So, in my next wishlist I think I'll add wisdom. Hey, a girl can wish!Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746915210718218263.post-60645173741858909742011-05-16T09:44:00.002-03:002011-06-06T09:28:05.313-03:00Ingmar Bergman for childrenSwedish director Ingmar Bergman created a large body of work spanning half a century and largely regarded as influential and profound. The stories usually go on the subject of good and evil with metaphors and the notions of comedy, happy endings or frivolity are foreign concepts.<br />
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Indeed those are complicated movies, the complete opposite to a summer blockbuster if there ever was one. <br />
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For my 9th birthday, my best friend gave me a book by Swedish writer <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maria_Gripe">Maria Gripe</a>. The Glassblower Children, I think it was. Or maybe Josephine and Hugo, two books related. Whichever it was, I loved it and kept seeking and reading her books. Some of my friends also liked her books and we had some sort of informal book club.<br />
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Most of Gripe's book were the equivalent of Bergman for kids. They were metaphors of life and death, good and evil, and they did play games with my mind. I didn't know if grownup people got to be that complicated (first I thought no, then yes), and if everybody spoke that way (no, everybody speaks differently). Along with unhealthy doses of early R.E.M. they were the key to my moody teenager musings on self discovery and self forging.<br />
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I always fell short of what I thought I could be, judging by those larger than life characters.<br />
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Years later I'm reading Maria Gripe's books again and I can't find what was so enticing of that foreign culture to my childhood mind - language, religion, weather, celebrations, everything was different and brought no explanatory notes. They even sound dated (not that there's anything wrong with that), but that might be just a trick because of the time since I first read them.<br />
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Maybe it's because they're not exactly books for children and the grown up me is just warming up to them. Maybe it's because they led me to much introspection and I rather be frivolous and superficial. Maybe it's because, sad as it is, I don't understand them anymore.<br />
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Picture by Harald Gripe, from <a href="http://bookstogether.squarespace.com/blog/2008/12/13/santa-lucia-hugo-and-josephine.html">here</a>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14990855042208099791noreply@blogger.com0