Crossings of my mind

Channeling Dooce

2011-12-19T10:38:00.018-02:00

I suppose that excessive exposure to Dooce can have side effects.

----

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:

- 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?

And there's always someone present who says - Oh no, don't you give her anything of that. It might be dangerous!

---

Another one. Baby or nephew falls awkwardly and cries dramatically, mostly out of surprise than any real pain.

- 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.

---

Whenever I say things like that I feel I'm channeling Heather Armstrong, queen of misunderstood sarcasm and hyperbole.

Wallpaper friends

2011-12-12T12:30:00.001-02:00

A 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 Beautiful Day through a can - or so it seems with my awful speakers. I'm not complaining, though, I'm getting my fix!

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.

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.

* 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.

Reading aloud

2011-12-05T12:07:00.001-02:00

Regretting 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.

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.

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.

Nerves

2011-11-21T13:24:00.001-02:00

I'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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Goodbye

2011-11-07T17:19:00.000-02:00

The past two months have been a torment for you, but now you're finally in peace.

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.

Thank you for everything. I love you.

Not my calling

2011-10-24T10:32:00.000-02:00

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

2011-10-17T11:10:00.001-02:00

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

2011-10-11T13:05:00.002-02:00

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

2011-10-04T09:26:00.001-02:00

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

Goodbye REM

2011-09-26T10:27:00.000-03:00

Last Wednesday afternoon my father sent me an email with a link to the REM homepage, with the news that the band was a band no more.

As I've already mentioned once, during my teens I was a big fan of their music. My very first own CD was Out of Time, and my second was Automatic for the People - 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.

In January 2001 they played in Buenos Aires and I jumped the pond with my then boyfriend to see them, and though the show was fantastic it marked the decline of both my fandom and relationship (how odd). When Reveal 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.

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). My husband, 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.

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.

Window to a windowless room

2011-09-19T10:38:00.003-03:00

Very recently I found "the largest advertisement-free Blog in the world", PostSecret. It's a website publishing items (usually postcards but also letters and objects) created and sent anonymously by people.

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.

I'm not depressive and never contemplated suicide, but I admit being a little wary every Sunday morning when I read the blogroll.

Yesterday this secret was published, and somehow made everything fall into place. It reads If PostSecret has taught me anything, it is that heartache (of any kind) is not personal. It is human.

Exactly.

---
Picture from PostSecret http://www.postsecret.com/2011/09/sunday-secrets_17.html

Remembering the memory

2011-09-12T11:37:00.002-03:00

Although 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.

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.

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.

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.

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".

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.

Idea for a family photo album project

2011-08-29T12:43:00.001-03:00

People usually organize their photo albums chronologically, i.e., first the pictures of one given year, then the next, and so on.

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.

So far I've managed to collect one series of four babies.

1920

1950

1980

2011.

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.

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.

And probably that we grow up to look only like ourselves, and nobody else.

August month

2011-08-22T11:15:00.000-03:00

August. 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.

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.

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?

I felt stupid every time I logged into Twitter. So August: notch yourself another win.

Is this worth it?

2011-08-15T10:43:00.000-03:00

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 what's for dinner panic attack and that we've converted to soup religion feeling.

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.

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?

Driver! Follow that actor!

2011-08-08T15:47:00.000-03:00

Everyone, meet Mads Mikkelsen (pronounced something like "max miggelsen").

Picture from here.

I first registered him as the bad guy in Casino Royale, a.k.a. "James Bond begins". Not particularly a memorable character, though interestingly creepy.

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.

Pic from here.

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.

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.

Pic from here.

The most bizarre film I found following Mads Mikkelsen is "Torremolinos 73". Franco's Spain meets homemade porn meets Ingmar Bergman... what can come up from that input?

Pic from here.

A story with hilarious absurd, sound development and a surprisingly tender end. That's what.

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!

Bereavement and comfort

2011-07-26T11:29:00.000-03:00

Yesterday 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.

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.

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.

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.

Prerrogative

2011-07-11T10:26:00.004-03:00

Mothers 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.

Early in March I was going to mention it 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.

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.

I was saying, these aren't any updated version. It's virtually the same thing.

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.

The girl in the bike was my favorite picture of all time. Thank you, girl in the bike, for coming back!

***

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 "I love you" by Figurine Panini, and there seems to be a lot of knockoffs and non franchised items. This book in particular, though, seems to.

A little more on Sarah Kay can be read here.

At Sabina's

2011-07-04T10:34:00.083-03:00

It 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.

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.

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 her own words) give a dash of color to my mornings and, interestingly, feel a lot like pieces of my own life, past or present. That's Sabina Ćudić publishing from Sarajevo, Bosnia, a place I know embarrassingly little about (so let's say I know nothing but the map location).

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.

***

Here's an interesting note in Decor8, where I first heard of Sabina. Photo by Sabina Ćudić, used with permission.

Just because

2011-06-27T10:34:00.027-03:00

When I was a student in elementary school (maybe 7 or 8 years old) my mother struck a deal with both my sister and I.

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 just because. 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.

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.

***

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.

What's cooking?

2011-06-13T10:25:00.090-03:00

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.

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.

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.

I say the love is unrequited because oftentimes they're not up to the task assigned.

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.

They don't grow on trees so one needs to know what to do when the contents end.

3. While newer stoves models contain some flickering system, most people don't own a newer model. So the matches are very common.

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.

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.

Tarragon, thyme and rosemary just aren't the same.

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).

If you're a guest, be ready for spending some time guessing what's where.

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.

7. Crandon's cooking book. 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.

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.

8. Accoutrements for red meat preparation. Uruguay being one of the top consumers of red meat per capita in the world, the required equipment to prepare a good steak, stew, barbeque or meatloaf are typically found in home kitchens.

The knife point tells I'm not very good at storing my wares.

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.

But don't worry, the jars are sold in markets and cost barely above a liter or two of milk.

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.

In that case, there is no limits for sweetness.

***

Update: If you found me from I link I posted in Chez Larsson, welcome, thank you, and know that I've never done that before or plan on doing it again ever.

(Just a little) peace of mind

2011-06-06T10:34:00.050-03:00

Lately 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 few that apparently were worth the shelf real estate value.

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.

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.

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?

Grandpa goes to Hollywood

2011-05-30T10:25:00.074-03:00

This is my paternal grandfather, or at least this is how he used to look around the time he married my grandmother.

Enrique, that was his name, had many jobs but only one employer in his life, the meat packing factory Frigorífico Anglo of Fray Bentos. 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 gringo, but soon started working in the factory as just another worker.

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.

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 corned beef, however, will be harder to wipe off.

Bully beef and biscuits were the main field rations of the British Army from the Boer War to World War II, says Wikipedia, 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.

In The English Patient, 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 Gallipoli, in the scene where Mel Gibson runs through the trenches. I'm certain that I've seen in many other times but unfortunately, IMDB doesn't allow searches for props like corned beef cans, and still pictures of those movies don't pay particular attention to them.

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, "My grandpa could have been the one to pack that can". And it feels really good.

***
Corned beef picture from here.

Wishlisting

2011-05-23T10:34:00.083-03:00

While 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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Ingmar Bergman for children

2011-05-16T09:44:00.002-03:00

Swedish 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.

Indeed those are complicated movies, the complete opposite to a summer blockbuster if there ever was one.

For my 9th birthday, my best friend gave me a book by Swedish writer Maria Gripe. 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.

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.

I always fell short of what I thought I could be, judging by those larger than life characters.

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.

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.

***

Picture by Harald Gripe, from here

Time traveling to 2006

2011-05-09T10:34:00.041-03:00

One day during this month will mark 5 years since I opened my first blogger account. Blogspot and Typepad were bubbling with people opening blogs all the time to speak their minds, to tell others about their day or interests, simply to own a public space and tasting what it feels like being the ruler in a little internet playground.

Some people really took off. Armed with one subject to write about, discipline and talent, they managed to create a niche and they became sort of celebrities. Most people telling little nothings or sharing everyday pictures moved on to Facebook, Twitter, PicasaWeb and other specific environments, and stopped blogging altogether.

In a way I still live in 2006, still immersed that blogging bubble. I didn't get the memo that people who don't know me probably aren't interested in reading me, but if you're here, you probably didn't get it either.

By the way, thank you.

Hard drugs

2011-05-02T10:28:00.004-03:00

Nothing ever gave me such a disproportionate feeling of accomplishment like a good 30 minute run did - let alone a 60 minute run. Biking for 75 minutes, one mile of lapswimming and 30 minutes of rowing (all of these within a gym walls, I must say) also left me basking in a glow of exhilaration and invincibility.

I think those were endorphines, and man are they addictive.

During pregnancy I was brimming with health and with a permanent positive mindset. The Universe and I were perfectly tuned, and I've never felt better.

I think those were oestrogen and other hormones, and man did I miss them after giving birth.

So like a recovering junkie craving her next fix but knowing it won't happen, I'm just doing without. Making do and doing without, but starting to realize that the fix is going to come in an odd and unexpected shape.

Fair-weather fan

2011-04-25T10:12:00.236-03:00

It's been let transpire a time or two in the past that I like ice hockey. Truth is I love watching ice hockey more than I ever enjoyed watching any other sport, much to my surprise because I've never played it, I've never met anyone who played it (or even really liked it), I'm not particularly drawn to seeing people getting smashed/slashed/stomped over/ beating the crap out of each other, and I can't even skate. Oh, and I've always despised couch potatoes. And I hate being cold. But so be it. My first, let's call it, exposition to hockey was on 2/13/2009 at the Mariucci Arena, and it was college men's hockey... I was captivated from the drop of the puck to the end, entranced almost, hooked if you catch my drift. In the following 12 months I watched more men's college, women's college, boys' high school, world U-18, men's olympic and professional hockey (mostly NHL but also a little Czech Superliga and KHL).

Even though not every game was good or worthwhile, every kind of hockey has been great to watch by its own merits. High school hockey is full of passion and hope, and anything can happen. U-18 is a blossoming promise and from the few games I attended, a handful of players have been drafted by the NHL and are making their way up the grades. College hockey teams are the oldest of all, bearers or a proud tradition, and olympic hockey, being such a short tournament is like a serious all star game where every second counts. Even women's hockey, usually snubbed for being less physical and less defensive, is more interesting from the tactical point of view (I learned a thing or two by watching women's Gophers) and let the goalies shine like no other player on the ice. If I had to choose one of those as my favorite I wouldn't know which to pick.

But to nix one hockey fix, there's nothing like the NHL. With 30 teams and 82 game seasons (that makes over 1000 60 minute games from September to early April), and 4 best-of-seven playoffs rounds until early June, that's a lot of hockey. Most games are internet and TV broadcasted, and there's abundant written press and blogs, hockey told in many voices and from many points of view, an unstreamlined stream of words that usually disgress, sometimes collide and very seldom align. The world of hockey literature was notoriously hard to locate (a pretty stunning fact taking into account I'm a trained reference librarian) but once I found one end of the twineball everything I had to do was just click around the links and immerse myself in that ocean of information.

***

Being a fan of the sport is not quite the same as being a fan of one team. Having gotten acquainted with the sport at age 30, I can't boast a family tradition or allegiance of any kind. It's true that I lived in Minnesota, self proclaimed State of Hockey (though if that was left to me to judge I'd give that title to Massachussetts), so I tend to root for teams based there but I'm not particularly loyal to them. Matter of fact, I try not to root for anyone because I feel sometimes that teams don't deserve my support (not that my support means much, but anyway).

What I do is to renew my picks every tournament, every game sometimes. If I like better one team's game I'll be happier if that team wins, but not because any deeper sense of faith or faithfulness. If that team turns its game to crap, then I'm not cheering for them anymore. That probably makes me a fair-weather fan, one of the most despicable creatures in the world of sports, but until there is one very good reason to stick with one team I'll be simply jumping around and enjoying the game from my place, this is, my couch and my laptop.

Brothers on the father's side

2011-04-18T10:48:00.032-03:00

I guess I tend to take iconography as if it had always been there.

And not the work of a flesh and bone person.

I had no clue that Coca Cola's Santa Claus and the Quaker Oatmeal Man were brothers on the father's side.

That neat chair Santa is sitting on is a pretty good indicative of his creator's influences, though. I'm so drawn to midcentury scandinavian design and so addicted to Coke that it never stop making sense, does it?

***

Coca Cola image from here. Quaker image from here. Sundblom image from here.

Nook is no book

2011-04-11T10:25:00.001-03:00

Last year I must have been particularly good because the fat man in the red suit (aka Santa Claus, Father Christmas, Pére Noël, Papá Noél, etc.) left a nook for me under the Christmas Tree.

It's a very pretty gadget, that looks just like another nondescript tech gadget (an oversized phone? a GPS? a camera with secret lenses? a maimed computer?) and it's great for reading. It's e-ink technology is way better for the eyes than light emitting screens, and it's way lighter and slimmer than most books.

It would be perfect if it wasn't for the fact that the nook is no book. It's just a toy, an energy guzzling, somewhat clumsy, not excessively ergonomic toy that looks tempting for pickpocketers and small time crooks, so I won't be carrying it much around. Its purported screen saving mode consumes more energy than I'd thought it would (or think it should), and it takes so long to boot that I wonder often whether the start button is working ok. It surprised me as heavy at first, although the weight is fine, but the placement of the turning page buttons is lower than it should be (and the "next" page button should be on top, because that's used more often), and the gesture recongnition on the touch screen, for some misterious reason, also seems to prefer going backward rather than forward. That page turning thing makes me think that the nook was designed with middle eastern markets in mind, rather for people that reads languages written left to right.

Anyway... nookie lets me read in privacy, without anyone guessing or being able to read over my shoulder (not unnoticed, at least), an that's ok with me. I'm glad with being able to carrying it around the house, or to bed, and loading and unloading books. It's my one toy, and for one, big guy in the red suit, I won't make fun of you or question your defying law physics.

A matter of tunnel vision

2011-04-04T10:34:00.014-03:00

A few days ago I read this post on things you can tidy in 10 minutes. It got me thinking, really, how come I feel I never accomplish anything regarding housework, and then it struck me.

It's all a matter of tunnel vision, of just seeing one thing and not stopping until it's done. You mean to take away the shoes adorning every corner of the livingroom floor, but once you took up the first pair a stampede of dustbunnies ran past your ankles and getting hold of the broom got on top of your priorities list. Then you may sweep all the floor but the shoes will still be there.

Tunnel vision mindset... I'll put that into practice, and see how it works.

In defense of Barbie doll

2011-03-28T10:37:00.000-03:00

Everyone loves to hate Barbie dolls and blame them for every character fault or psychological disease affecting young females, but I'd like to say, I find that a little unfair.

Yes, it's true that Barbie doesn't promote very high values but it's not shown to prevent children from developing them either. It's true that Barbie is unnaturally slim, but then most dolls are somewhat disproportionate. Barbie lives surrounded by glamor and far from worries, and it's only fair, I think, to admit that's how a few of us would like to live.

I'm pretty sure that teenagers and young women suffering from anorexia stemming from a desire to look slimmer would find inspiration in flesh and bone celebrities rather than a plastic one. And those who're actually affected in their decisions and perception of life by Barbie, probably have deeper issues in which blaming the dolls is like shooting the messenger.

That's how I see it, anyway. What I do hate about Barbie dolls and all its paraphernalia is its price. Then again, you can't blame a businessman for wanting to make money, do you?

Clean and clear

2011-03-21T11:03:00.001-03:00

Lately I have decided to introduce some little changes (*) in my life. They're very little and essentially harmless in the sense that they don't change the way I approach the things that normally (and naturally) happen, it's just that I've changed one little end of it. Actually lots of changes have been taking place in the past year or so, but these might be a little offbeat - or at least that's what I think because it's not something one normally discusses in polite company.

I only want to make it clear that I'm not fighting capitalism, the big corporations or saving a ton of money. It's not a revolution, not a political statement, and I'm definitely not feeling like the part of a subculture or counterculture or anything too radical or different. It's just evolution, and if I wished other people did the same, then I rather keep it for myself.

Preaching just won't take you nowhere.

(* I'm using this and doing this)

Monday's post

2011-03-16T08:52:00.000-03:00

For last Monday I had a post ready on Hello Kitty and Sanrio, and the wisdom of targeting young girls but at the same time targeting moms by sending them to a trip down the memory lane, but after the weekend wave of disasters that are hitting Japan I thought it was a disrespectful thing to say.

Maybe there's something more on topic to say about Japan.

Image from here.

These days I'm loving...

2011-03-07T10:48:00.031-02:00

These days I'm loving Gmail and IGoogle's Tea House themes. A Google (of course) search taught me I'm not alone in this infatuation (probably I'm not alone on anything), and I've joined the ranks of those following the little fox through his (hers?) daily chores.

(All the images were taken from this post here, because I'm so impaired with non verbal tools that I can't even take them out for myself. I altered the names though).

Someone even wrote a poem for this theme, that you can find in this other post here.

The Tea House theme is surprisingly soothing and relaxing for a collection of imagery of lovely characters doing things. The unexpected intersection of cute and zen.

She said, he said, they said

2011-02-21T11:19:00.122-02:00

In tales of love and romance there are always two sides in which the story can be told in the first person. The relevant details are those of each side's sensibility, and I find that some stories, beyond the plot and the characters' development, are a study on female or male sensibility.

For example, Pride and Prejudice (you can read the book or watch one of its many adaptations) focuses so much on female's point of view that men in the story don't have a page for themselves in which the action is developing. It is left to the female characters to find out, sometimes by happenstance, what they did when they weren't looking.

This has two interesting consequences. One, it allows for delicious rereads given that unimportant details turn out to be crucial clues. Other, most men find those stories boring and a little pointless and only watch (or read) them to please a lady.
(Source)

500 days of Summer is a story of love told from the male's point of view. Tom is head over heels for Summer but she dumps him, he's heartbroken and can't understand what went wrong.

I watched it with my husband and when it finished, I asked him what he thought about it.
- She was a witch, was his veredict, she played with his feelings and tossed him to a trash bin when she found someone better.
- He was a dummy, was mine. He pushed her and didn't want to listen when she said she wasn't in love with him.

While I haven't watched it again, it gave me some good food for thought on what men and women (at least of certain age and from certain places) believe are the signs of love in a relationship.
(Source)

Before sunrise and Before sunset are a delicious tandem of stories where the characters don't take clues to act. They almost don't do anything at all but talk and talk, and that's where the interesting stuff happens. One needs to be very attentive to the dialog and not miss one line, or the magic is gone. The very same people nine years apart, open their hearts and go over the good and the bad and somehow they manage to touch every persons' story.

I believe it is completely impossible not to identify with Jesse or Céline at one point of another. They are what you are, were or wanted to be at some point of your life. A male friend of mine says both films are incredibly romantic and are marketed as such. But I disagree. I'd say they are about relationships, but not exactly romance.
(Source)

Having the chance to borrow glasses to see love and romance through eyes that aren't mine is a priceless experience. And so romantic too.

Dependency

2011-02-21T10:48:00.000-02:00

Sooner or later it was going to happen, and it did sooner it seems. I missed last Monday's post - I was sick, husband and baby were sick too, and time and energy to let ideas flow just weren't there. But once again, my respect for bloggers who make a living of it and never, ever let one day pass without publishing one or more articles soared.

I'm probably not in a time of my life where self employment would look appealing. My motto these days could be : If you're not dependable, be a dependent.

The end of the roll and the drum for a full circle

2011-02-07T10:37:00.087-02:00

It was only twelve years ago though it feels like a lifetime, that I started dating my first boyfriend. We were very young and immature and so was our relationship, which was made mostly of commonplaces and daydreaming.

One day I took my Zenit 122, and suggested we took pictures just for the fun of it. Development fees were a little expensive for our budgets (what wasn't?), so we stuck to one monthly roll. The subjects of the pictures were mostly ourselves, our families, friends and pets, and some still natures too. In all, none of those pictures were technically outstanding but they were a good document of our lives back then.

By the time we broke up we had a good stack of pictures, mostly portraits of each other taken during roughly two years. I asked him to come by and picked up his but he never did. So I kept them away from plain sight for a few years.

Three years ago when my partner and I were getting ready to travel to Minnesota, I found those pictures and made three piles: mine, his and ours. I kept the first pile with my other pictures, put the second in an envelope and destroyed the third. Once again I asked him to come and pick them up and once again, he refused - true to his style he diffused more than refused... there are things about people that never change. Still it didn't feel right to destroy those pictures so once more, I kept them away from plain sight.

Last month we were packing to move and those pictures surfaced again; this time I knew I had to made a decision. So I looked up his mother's number in the book (he doesn't live in this country anymore and contacting him was proving really annoying) and asked her whether she was interested.

Of course she was and a couple of hours later she dropped by, releasing me of the burden of those pictured memories of something that doesn't mean much to me anymore.

Her presence in my home and the release from those pictures felt like a good closure. She had been there once when I had just moved in and she was there for the second time right before I moved out, to end something I felt had been left hanging. Like a camera with a roll where there's just one last picture to snap and you don't want to squander it I waited for a long time before that last click, which thankfully when I did, it wasn't too late.

To all Tolkien-based movies' fans

2011-01-31T10:48:00.014-02:00

Breaking news to all Tolkien-based movies' fans: Legolas is for real!

This is Andrej Pejic, (by Thomas Lohr, from here). I saw the picture at a fashion blog some days ago and thought this is the quintessential Tolkien elf. Not a very productive thought, but quite honest though.

My two cents

2011-01-24T10:48:00.000-02:00

1. Visit your own town as if you were a tourist. Go to restaurants, music venues or museums that might not be your cup of tea, as you would if you were in another place.

2. Clean your drawers as if you were moving. Get rid of all the things you don't use: free samples, items with wear marks or that don't have value; don't be afraid of non-clutter.

3. Follow your own advice.

Ha.

I chose not to own a tv...

2011-01-17T10:48:00.000-02:00

This post of the notable blog 1001 rules for my unborn son got me thinking. I chose not to own a tv when I left my parents' home and never changed my mind, mostly because I never really romanced the box and because only recently did I have the money to buy one.

I'm not very sure what Lamond had in mind when he wrote his "rule", but it's been my mantra just because I don't want to sound that granola. Appearances, appearances.

Ten years later, I've lived under the same roof with a tv more than once but I simply don't watch it. The box schedules are tyrannical and I'm more of an on-demand person, so internet is my cup of tea. I rather feel the master than the slave.

That's when it comes to scheduling, that is. Otherwise it's not that different.

Rides of goodbye

2011-01-10T10:48:00.032-02:00

During the ride from the apartment I had lived in for almost 10 years to the new one I thought the same city I've lived most of my life looked different. The buildings were more meaningful and at the same time more distant, as if I was seeing them from the first time.

It struck me that the ride out of a home you loved but you can't live in anymore is pretty much like the rides to the airport or from the cemetery. A goodbye and the start of something you don't know quite what to expect of.

New year's resolution

2011-01-03T10:48:00.001-02:00

When I started this blog I thought I had many interesting things to say. I needed a creative outlet, because I was feeling extremely creative back then and even if I knew it always boils down to the same cycles, I thought it would last a long time.

But now I find myself proofreading my posts and thinking, man is this boring! And then releasing a deep sigh.

Probably nobody can argue that with me, however, I found a new challenge in this writing a blog endeavor. If I've always blamed myself on inconstancy, why not setting a goal of posting every week? No matter how uninspired, as long as it is readable, I'll be writing something that crosses my mind and shuttling it up to this little corner of the cyberspace.

So here we go, that's my new year's resolution. And I won't take a stumble for a fall, if I don't post one week I'll still have the next one to pick up.

Sounds interesting. Beats flossing every night, I think.

How I got the news

2010-12-27T11:25:00.054-02:00

How do you imagine you'd learn you're pregnant?

I had always envisioned this scenario: some 6 weeks after my last period, in the privacy of my bathroom, with a store bought test. I figured the anxiety of having to wait those 3 minutes, exchanging looks with my husband and speaking aloud the what if's that would cross my mind, and then maybe celebrating the positive result with a hug and a kiss.

Needless to say it didn't happen that way.

I hadn't had the chance to miss the missing period when I started feeling odd, on Christmas day last year. It was like a bubble on my left side which I hoped it would just go. It didn't go but got worse and when I couldn't move any longer (including deep breath or filling my stomach), I gave up and let my husband take me (haul me) to the emergency room. Given the fact it was cold - we were in Minnesota and last time I had experienced a similar symptom it was a mega kidney infection in the making, it just made sense.

Like every other time I went to the ER I got tested for a slew of conditions including pregnancy, and unlike every other time they made us wait like for two hours in those dirty seats, looking either at an aquarium with monster sized fish or a TV with awful programming.

It seemed forever but they finally called my name and we were taken to one examination room, where two people in a row asked exactly the same questions I had been asked already. One senior female nurse asked me repeatedly if I thought I might be pregnant and if there were chances of it, and how would I take it, and then broke the news.

I was stunned. I didn't celebrate, I didn't kiss or hug. I didn't do or say anything, maybe said, oh.

Then, they started trying to find out what was causing that bubble thing. They ran a lot of tests I don't remember, except for the sonogram to see if the embyro was nested in the right place. It was hardly noticeable, just two weeks old, and yes, it was in the right place. We didn't have to wait the 3 minutes to see if the test gave positive, but those seconds searching for the tiny spot were stressful. Later that night I was discharged with a "come back in 24 hours if you don't get well", which I did because I didn't get well. There, 36 hours after the first sonogram, I had a second one done... the difference was remarkable.

Amazing.

I'll never know what was wrong with me. After a painkiller's effect wore off I got a little woozy (as been told), threw up and got well. Miraculously.

A belated Christmas present if I ever got one.

Unexpected

2010-12-20T18:58:00.000-02:00

The best unexpected thing about parenthood is wanting to be best possible person, just because the child deserves it.

The worst, making loved people feel questioned by making other parenting choices.

Would you still believe I had a happy childhood even if I don't want the same things for my child?

Daily glamor

2010-12-13T10:48:00.000-02:00

Often, it feels like maybe too often, I struggle with dinner. Planning it and cooking it seems like an impossible task, and it feels like we're having soup again. Or dang, another overpriced cold delivered pizza. It used to feel so good and now it feels crappy, that delivered pizza.

In order to solve my predicament, I turned to my ever friendly Google and I ask it (though "begging" is more like it) how I can, once and for all, plan our dinners. Just once a week, or less, once every few days. I've subscribed to plenty websites, I've read plenty cookbooks, but it's of no help.

And you know why is that? Because food is ingrained to the very core of who I turn out to be and where I happen to live. What to eat, how to do it and when to stuff our mouths with it in this global era, is still pretty much a business of where we live and who we are. I love meat but I find organs disgusting. I don't eat seafood. Poultry and chicken are synonyms to me. I can't eat hot spicy ingredients, or I feel my teeth are falling off. I find green vegetables boring (sigh), and I need extra encouragement in the form of mayo or mustard to plow through potatoes and other roots (double sigh). Touching raw food is unpleasant to me, and I work with spoons and spatulas and forks so I can avoid it as much as possible. Things that require many steps, like moussaka, I might adore but are way off my patience's league. I'm a grown up picky eater who would like to break the old habits, but is unsure of how to.

Reading cookbooks and recipes is exciting, but the ingredients (kale, anyone?), the proportions (is that butter?), the required accoutrements (some as silly as an oven thermometer) make most of the reading pretty close to science fiction. Or it is that I'm overwhelmed?

In the end it's just me complaining. The department of health has issued a cookbook with simple, cheap and healthy recipes with nutritional information, and in spite of the general lack of glamor and disgusting measuring terms like "1/2 package of...", it should fit my bill. But it still feels so... hard. Is it so for everybody else out there?

Irony on the news

2010-11-29T13:41:00.000-02:00

Wikileaks is on the news again and I can't help admiring the irony of the Internet being used to betray its own creator.

In Thanksgiving mood

2010-11-22T12:20:00.000-02:00

Next Thursday Americans celebrate Thanksgiving, one holiday I did like when I lived in Minnesota, so I'm in the mood for thankfulness.

Blogger stats indicate someone in Ukraine visits this blog often. I'm not surprised that someone from that faraway land with an exotic name starting in U reads my blog, though I'm a little surprised by it happening so regularly. Surprised, and a bit pleased too.

To my readership in Ukraine, whoever you are and whyever you come here... thank you.

The wealth of books

2010-11-15T13:21:00.000-02:00

More than once in the past few years, I've been hired to make an inventory of a personal library with views to sell it. What I had to do was to write down the information of the book (title, author, and a note of its state), and then did some research in order to find out how much could be its asking price.

Going through those books (thousands, actually) gave me the eerie feeling of having a conversation with their original owners.

One of the libraries belonged to the late husband of a relative, a man who after so many years I've come to the conclusion he was just very shy, and though I had been close to those books all my life I had never, not once, perused their spine, let alone open them. My relative wanted to do some renovating in her house, and 20 years after the passing of her husband thought it was time to let them go. He was an historian of architecture and the books were, fittingly, on history of architecture.

What impressed me, aside the fabulous prices asked for the same volumes in specialized internet bookstores, was how well curated that collection was. There were four or five subjects, and only a few books strayed from them. Most of the books had been bound in similar style, with leather and hardcover, and gilded letters, sometimes with some ornamental little designs too. The man I knew couldn't have been the first owner of many of the books, because most of them had been published in the 19th century (he wasn't THAT old, you know?), but they were in prime condition - for books that age, anyways.

My relative's husband was a very quiet man, and consistent with his style the annotations on the pages were illegible. Almost imperceptible too, because they were made in pencil. That was an intimate muttering that, as when he was alive, wasn't for me to decipher. Marga couldn't read them either, but they brought memories of him she hadn't revisited in a long time, and that was when I heard how she had fallen in love and married her former teacher and then boss... a great story that must have earned the reprieve of more than one genteel, back in 1955.

I got that same feeling of a conversation with another library, that belonged to a lawyer who had passed away only a year before. The widow wanted to move and she didn't want to move that huge library with her (a wise decision if you ask me), so they hired me. There weren't any law books in this collection - those had already been removed, and I saw mostly literature, philosophy, history and political science books. Some of the books had been read and reread, but most had the musty smell of a dead book, unopened since the day it was first brought. I saw many bestsellers - the man wanted to read what was hot, and those had clear annotations in ink, which made me think that he liked to have his voice heard. There were a few gems in that library too, obviously he wasn't superficial and knew what he was buying, but that library wasn't made out of love, not completely at least. There were a few duplicates (a book shopaholic, maybe?), and during the wrapping up of my task I couldn't shake that feeling of showing off.

I really don't know how many of those books were finally sold, and how much money they got from them. What I do know is that they were a second burial and a second mourning for someone long gone. Pointlessly painful, I thought. So, if you find yourselves in that situation, act quickly.

Seriously.

On house hunting and soul searching

2010-11-08T10:54:00.003-02:00

We've spent most of the ending year in active house hunting. With a new member of the family on the way - and new roles to that, our studio kitchen, one bedroom, 36 sq mt (380 sq ft) apartment doesn't fit the bill anymore.

So we started our search. We had the help of real estate agents, but we conducted our independent searching too. We thought we knew what we wanted in terms of budget, total area and neighborhood, but soon we realized that it was just a little part of it.

With regards to a possible mortgage, we needed to ask ourselves about our professional prospective for the next two decades. Are we so sure we'll be able to spare the money for the payment every month of every year, from now to the next ten or twenty years? What if's? Is it worth the effort?

We thought it would be worth it only if we knew, which we don't, how many people are going to be in our family and what are going to be their needs. If we're going to have more children and if they're going to be more girls or there are going to be boys too. Should our needs change dramatically, we'd be facing the difficulties of selling with a mortgage, which as we're finding out is definitely something to avoid as much as possible.

We visited newer buildings (from 1975 on), designed in the logic of modern life - smaller bedrooms and baths, larger common areas, but the ratio price / total area is ridiculously high. And far too often they are made of poor building materials, so we left feeling a little depressed.

We visited older buildings (from 1900 on), designed in the logic of needs past - with a service bedroom and bath which shows that slavery might have crept well into 20th century in this country, despite what history says. In spite of the attractive details (great ratio price / area, oak and cedar doors, gypsum moldings, high ceilings) far too often those apartments are in a state of derelict that ask for courage to tackle a full renovation, guts on. Are we renovating kind of people, either the DIY or the phone the contractor type? Not really. Not that we know, at least.

While we were in our search the economic tide changed and the bigger banks started offering mortgage loans. Lots of them. Very appealing. So the prices soared, much to our dismay. But we held our ground and our offer was always "money today" and not contingent to bank approval. We know how to be appealing too.

Those questions involving family planning, job prospective, renovation enthusiasm and more, are in fact deep questions that go to the core of our beliefs and foundation of our lifestyle. We found that we held different opinions and points of view that we had to negotiate, not always willingly, not always courteously. But in spite of those exchanges, where we frequently got to learn more about ourselves than the other, or maybe thanks to them, we found something we both liked and made an offer.

Now let's hope that we get the wisdom AND the home.

Current addictions

2010-11-01T15:10:00.001-02:00

I can't imagine life these days without any of them.

A big coincidence, or maybe it was the bigger plan

2010-10-25T14:45:00.005-02:00

If I sometimes wonder whether our actions follow a bigger plan, it's because of a strange coincidence that happened many years ago.

It was late spring 1995 and I was studying for my final exams in high school, not exactly with enthusiasm but with a good deal of sense of duty anyway. During my teens I was a big fan of night radio shows, and during those exam weeks every night, at around 11 pm, I would tune in one particular guy. He had enough sense to curate the song selection (staying out of popularity countdowns, a plus in my book then) and a gorgeous voice to read stories.

Those days, as I still do now, I had the impulse to write him a letter (now that would be an email) to say what I liked most about the show and, I thought it was a necessity, to say what I would like to see changed. I wrote the letter and it stood on my desk until it was too late, so I tossed it into the bin and I forgot about the issue.

One afternoon, listening to that same radio but to an earlier show, I heard a poem. "Say who wrote the poem and in which film it was recited and enter a contest for cinema tickets". That very poem had been in my Literature class the previous year, and my parents had rented the film in question during that month, so I knew the answer for certain. Some people's calls were aired, and they were wrong. I phoned, said my answer, and waited anxiously for the drawing.

They drew the winners and my name wasn't among them. I shrugged it off and went on to do whatever I was doing then.

But a couple of hours later the phone rang and it was from the radio, to say that one of the winners had declined the prize and they had pulled my entry. Congratulations, they said, come by the radio from tomorrow 10 am on.

That following day, it was a Friday, I remember, during my self imposed lunch break (I was studying hard, remember that) I rode my bike down to the station to claim my tickets. And I wrote a new letter to the night show guy, having my say, which I left at the reception desk. That night I went to see the movie with my dad, and got back just in time for my favorite emission.

The first thing the man said was Julia, if you're listening... Thank you, and he didn't mention my letter or my name again but he played the songs I had said I liked. That night the show was just for me.

That Saturday I got a package with a long letter and a CD I still treasure. The letter explained that the day before, in the late morning to be exact, he had been summoned to discuss his new contract but he had been fired instead. Nobody cares about your little night program was in a nutshell what his bosses had said, and he was, like, clubbed in the head or elbowed in the gut, but then he was handed my letter and read it and saw they were wrong. There was, at least, one listener who cared and he was immensely relieved, exhilarated almost.

The program lasted a couple more weeks on air, during which he encouraged readers to send mail and seemed to me that he had quite a lot of feedback. And then his time in that station was over.

I tried to track him in other radios but he moved on to other formats and media, becoming more and more visible. I never wrote him another letter and once I crossed him on the street I simply nodded as to say I know who you are, hi. Mainly because I thought, and still think, that there wasn't anything to say and my little anecdote doesn't need to have a follow-up.

Because it was just a big coincidence, or maybe it was the bigger plan of life and things.

Side effects

2010-10-18T14:27:00.002-02:00

Many body changes take place during pregnancy in order to nurture and accommodate the growing baby, and to help baby out during delivery. Among other things joints loosen, blood flow increases, sleep pattern may change and something called nesting instinct happens.

Also, there might be some weight gain but in the great scheme of things is usually inconsequential.

After my baby was born in the last day of August, and the tiredness of natural delivery was over, and the episiotomy healed and I started feeling like the person I had been before, I found all those loose joints, retained fluid and stretched muscles a bit pointless. Also, I found that baby care is demanding to say the least and my back and arms are feeling the pressure.

So I joined back the gym next door I had been attending for nearly a decade. To regain strength and flexibility, and to make all those diaper changes and lovely cuddling pleasant way after baby is clean and asleep in her cot.

And who knows, there might be some inconsequential weight loss too. Or so every person I've told about my plans seems to hope for.

Complaining day

2010-10-11T12:36:00.003-02:00

Why can't montevideans, government and citizens alike, be less in love with cars and more in love with bikes? Cars are so impressively expensive here, with around 50% of their price made up just by taxes, and the gas... don't get me started. But no, bikers are less every day because streets are too dangerous. Dangerous for bikers, for children, for animals, for other drivers... damn it, when will Montevideo be more friendly to humans and less to machines?

Why can't montevideans, government and citizens alike, be less in love with concrete and tin and closed skylights, and more in love with creeping plants and grass and balconies full of flowers? Grey roofs and facades are so depressing, and hot, and cold, and dead. But don't dream of making green roofs, that's for rich people only. And you might get who knows what critter living up there.

Why can't montevideans, government and citizens alike, try to be more savvy with kitchen scraps and make some compost instead of a big, smelly pile of trash? Trash is so complicated, having to be removed every day from everywhere and taking up so much space. But no, out of sight out of mind. And you need a huge backyard and lot of free time to make some compost.

Why can't we give modern washable versions of hygiene products, such as pads a diapers, a chance? One slimy, darned chance instead of spending so much money for things that lasts the blink of an eye in use, and then go to the trash.

Today is my complaining day. Must be because that "I hope someday you'll join us" that's been on my mind since Saturday, and because I'm on loser/procrastinator mode.

Tomorrow, I'm starting a revolution. Or not. Stay tuned. Maybe.

With the last of winter clementines

2010-10-04T20:42:00.003-02:00

Winter is fading and the best part of it, clementines, are going away until next year. It's such a pity... I really like clementines (mandarins, tangerines or whatever name you call them, it's probably not the right one for the citrus I have in mind), and I do think they're the best of the cold season I'm not too fond of.

We've had some rainy days and they found me in the mood for cake. Clementine cake.

Ingredients:
2 big juicy clementines, or one juicy orange, or more clementines
1 cup of sugar
1/2 cup of oil
1 egg
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
2 cups of all purpose wheat flour
2 teaspoons of baking powder

Icing:
Juice of half a lemon, or 4 tablespoons of water or another juice
12 tablespoons of confectioner's sugar

Notions
Blender
Chopping board
Peeling knife
Mixing bowl
Spatula
Tin loaf (Bundt cake's if you prefer that shape)
Butter to grease the loaf
Glass or other small container to mix the icing
Small spatula, brush or finger to spread it
Oven

Steps:
1. Wash the fruit thoroughly and peel. Make sure there are no stickers on them.
2. Toss the peelings in the blender and chop until, ahem, very chopped.
3. Make sure the segments of the fruit don't contain seeds, and if they do, take the seeds off with the knife and the chopping board.
4. Toss said segments in the blender and blend, until you have an even textured mixture.
5. Add the egg, the oil, the sugar and the vanilla extract and blend again.

Put the flour and the baking powder in the bowl, and mix with the spatula. Add the moist mixture and blend with the spatula until you have a (another!) even mixture. Grease the tin loaf and dust lightly with flour, and pour the mixture. You should leave more than an inch to allow rising.

My oven is very temperamental so I can't really say the heat and time, but let's say that medium to low oven for about 45 minutes should do the trick. Maybe checking 30 minutes in is a wise idea.

Once it's done (you can tell by stabbing it repeatedly, if it yells you should give it some more time ;-) ), take it out from the tin and put on a nice dish. While it's still warm, add a mixture of confectioners' sugar and juice and let it cool and sink in.

It takes about two hours to cool completely, and it's virtually Julia proof - I've only managed to ruin it with an oven that actually tells the temperature, or using rather flat tempered glass oven containers.

If I were a good photographer, I'd add a picture here. But I don't want to spoil the charm of it!

***

Notes:

The fruit: I've only tried oranges and clementines, but never dared with lemons, limes or grapefruit. When the fruit I'm using is too dry, I add a swish (that being a couple of tablespoons) of orange juice from a carton, or water as an extreme measure. Ah, I once tried with a banana, and it was awful!

The oil: I've tried canola, corn, soy and rice oil. I was told especially not to use olive oil, which I've respected more because it's very expensive but it might be interesting.

The flour: If I and my husband were more adventurous we'd try adding other than wheat. This cake has a moist texture and I'm not very sure it would go down well, but if you try it please let me know of your thoughts.

The icing: I use a cup to mix and whenever I put first the sugar it turns out well, and if I put the water or juice first it turns out bad. My experience.

The containers: For some reason, this cake goes better with tall shapes rather than flat, and with tin better than tempered glass or ceramic.

The oven: A total mystery. I never tried a microwave oven, and a grill doesn't make sense. Just avoid opening before 30 minutes, unless it's smelling like it's burning.

The blender: A non-negotiable.

The touch: ginger, pepper, cinnamon. But I think the texture of the mashed peeling is enough.

Inexorable but permanent

2010-09-20T11:59:00.005-03:00

On the evening of Thursday the first of August 2002, I went out on a second date with a young man. The evening ended in my apartment, and I could say that the date was long and had just one small intermission to go to work on Friday noon.

That Sunday morning, still in the company of that same young man and so used to his clean head and blue eyes that I was startled when the mirror gave me a full haired head and black eyes, I seriously thought that the weekend would never end. Like it was impossible, in spite of logic and experience that weekends, no matter how good, always come to an end.

While I have proof that the first weekend of August 2002 effectively ended, something of it didn't end. The young man stayed and still does, his clean head and blue eyes the first thing my eyes see every morning when I wake up, always the last thing my heart kisses goodnight.

September 2010 has found me with that feeling of everlasting time. My newborn daughter, as old as the month itself, is both a novelty in the house and a statement as if she had always been there... first as an absence, now as a presence.

I know for sure, something of September 2010 will always stay with me.

Coffee break

2010-08-30T12:30:00.007-03:00

While there's always been coffee around it wasn't until I got married that I paid some attention to the brew itself. I had always liked the smell of both the fresh ground beans (from grocery store Manzanares) and the resulting beverage, and I was aware of the social connotations of "having a cup of coffee". However my parents never drank it alone (their morning drink is 1/4 coffee 3/4 milk), and I mostly endured rather than enjoyed my first cups.

I'm not very sure how those cups were made. Probably espressos and Nescafe... I don't know. Those first 5 years of coffee were self guided (or misguided, should I say) and I don't have any recollection of actually understanding what I was drinking. Just smiling and trying to take the rough from my tongue.

But then I got married. And we received four coffee makers, and I almost got a fifth somewhere else. And then I understood that unlike other beverages (tea would be my reference), the way water and dry ground coffee meet is very important. Or for how long the device allows them to be together before splitting them in beverage and wonderful smelling detritus. And the temperature of the water, or better said, the state of the matter (liquid or steam). And it goes on, with the kind of water and the material of the recipient from which it is drank, and the type of ground (finer or coarser) and, well, with coffee itself.

So, you can leave coffee grounds and water mingle for as long as you wish, and then strain the grounds and have clean coffee on your cup. That's what french press coffee makers do.

Or you can put the ground beans in a strainer and let very hot water go through it. Maybe you measured the water and you're pouring it, making sure it falls all over the strainer or just in one point, so what you have is technically just a coffee pot like this one

with a top removable device, but chances are you have the most common electrical coffee maker, dripping every drop in exactly the same spot of the strainer.

I'm really fond of this kind of coffee makers. They look very friendly and unassuming, I think.

However, plenty of people I know prefer the mixture to be born out of steam. I've gathered that when coffee is made that way, it's called espresso. And you'll need something like this to have one cup of it:

You have to be a fool or to have a heart of stone not to like the looks of the Bialetti. Originally designed in the 1930's, it's still around mostly unchanged and probably somebody had one when you were growing up, regardless of when and where such thing happened. The device itself is quite ingenious too, and how it works wasn't evident to me until one arrived to my door with a ribbon and a wishing you happiness note.

With a side feature, the plugged version that pours down the steam instead of sending it up and allows you to heat milk for a capuccino. This maker yields the most fashionable results, but the charms are lost on me... I hate milk in my coffee.

There are two more types of makers I've never been too close to: the percolators and the vacuum systems. Both have glamor of years past and I hold nothing against them, my lack of knowledge stems from, well, the chance never arouse.

If we were to organize the coffee makers by material, we'd see that all glass, some glass and stainless steel go pretty much regardless of the system, while pottery (and pottery like materials) belong to just one category. If we were to use the source of energy to heat the water (included or excluded), and the container to do that (again, included or excluded), it mimics the materials clusters. Easy to clean, design (would you keep it on sight were someone important come to your home?), even how much they weight and how big they are, are other possible options.

But I have to admit that, for all the beauty some of those makers spread to the world of my kitchen, I grade them by how much I like the resulting beverage. Hand dripping is my absolute winner, and electrical dripping is close second. I can't resist the smoothness of the coffee and the expansive wave of great smell invading my home and staying for hours.

Cheers!

Brief list of mundane pleasures

2010-08-23T12:30:00.005-03:00

- watching the whimsical curves of smoke from a freshly brewed cup of tea.

- a shady garden where I least expect it.

- the swish of a pair of pants against my waxed legs.

- getting there from here faster by bike.

- homes smelling of coffee dip brewing and slices of bread toasting.

- turning on the radio and catching a favorite tune from the beginning.

- a nap behind a sunny window, in that state of mind neither asleep nor awake.

- an email from a friend.

- (a few) German movies from the past 12 years.

- browsing old pictures.

- random memories from our 8 years together, daydreaming of the years to come.

Beatle (crap) mania

2010-08-16T12:56:00.003-03:00

There are (or have been) an amazing lot of crap theories about the Beatles out there. And today, I'm going to collaborate with one of my own.

This is a picture from the film "Yellow Submarine", made by artist Heinz Edelmann. I love the film, and I've had this picture in a large poster hanging from one wall or another for years. When George Harrison died I looked intently at this picture and I think it foretold the future, although nobody paid attention when it was originally released in 1968.

I'm obviously referring to the fact that the characters are depicted (in distance to the front and amount of color) in their order of passing away.

See? John is totally on the back, we can't see his shoulders, and he's wearing only bright shades of color. That's because (ahem) he died first. We can see a lot more of George, but not his whole chest and he's wearing mostly red, with only some details in black. That's because his turn was second. Paul and Ringo are wearing mostly black; that's because they had to attend their friends' funerals.

Now, according to this poster, there should be an answer for a question nobody cares to ask: who comes next? Both remaining musicians are depicted wearing fairly the same amount of black, though it's hard to say who has more. Ringo being on the front is because he's shorter so it makes sense on its own, and we can see fairly enough of Paul as it is.

Risking an answer is too creepy for my taste, but I guess it makes a good Beatle crap theory. Do you have any bogus theory of your own you'd like to share?

Picture from The New York Times.

Holy cakes!

2010-08-09T10:54:00.004-03:00

I don't cook as often as I purposely make people believe, and I admit that the most dreaded question in the evenings is "what do we eat tonight?". Sometimes I just can't seem to pick myself up and get down to cook, and there are lots of things I simply don't think I can do. Despite those misgivings I'm a firm believer of the importance of feeding with food made at home, and I'm an avid reader of blogs of people who share recipes and thoughts around it.

One of those blogs is Katie Quinn Davies' What Katie Ate. Despite some cultural differences I feel very much in tune with her because she lives in Sydney Australia (so right now she's cooking hearty food and not complaining about the heat), because she's not afraid of meat and has a penchant for pies and casseroles, and because she likes berries - OK, that's more of nostalgia on my side, berries remind me of our life in Minnesota.

A few weeks ago she asked her readers to send in some recipes and I dared to share one my home staple dishes, one of those "no think" dinners with enough leftovers for lunch. And holy cakes! She liked it, she made it and she featured it on her blog!

(Click on the screenshot to open her post)

The recipe is very simple but also has a lot of room for improvisation and customization. It seems to me that she added a few ingredients of her choice, and created a whole different dish with more texture and probably a more complex taste than my bare original. It certainly looks more appetizing than what's in my lunchbox right now!

Now I wonder... I don't remember seeing this pie anywhere I've been to, but it's also true this is not haute cuisine. How many regions would claim this simple pie made of stacked slices of ham and cheese as their own?

I hope Australians will, soon. ;-)

Fausses biographies

2010-08-02T15:09:00.010-03:00

Lately I've been noticing a trend, if it can be called so, in movies of fake biographies. I'm referring to films where the main character is a real life writer, the story covers a time from which there is little knowledge, and it's made up from anecdotes of his or her works.

The first case is Shakespeare in love, a lighthearted comedy that made perhaps to much noise - and therefore many people found disappointing, but in my opinion is growing old very well. New audiences, thankfully spared from all the hype, can laugh at the jokes (both the knowledgeable and the sitcom style) and enjoy the antics of William and Viola without thinking about the Oscars it was awarded. The supporting cast is fantastic, especially the British actors (does Geoffrey Rush have a nationality anymore?) and the side humor is as good, or maybe better, than what's going on with the main plot - which I think is good enough.

The second film is Molière, a French production very much after Shakespeare in love's heart. Romain Duris, a surprisingly versatile actor (remember his intensity as a cultivated henchman in De battre mon coeur s'est arrêté and his post teenager musings as an Erasmus French student in Spain in L'auberge espagnole) plays the role of a terribly bad actor who's in jail for unpaid debts, and he's offered a job as an acting coach and turns out to be a great writer.

The people Molière meets during this time, the dialogues he has and the situations he experiences mimic those of his best known plays: Tartuffo, The bourgeois gentleman, The imaginary invalid and others. The twists and turns are very funny, and I really like the French cinema acting school (if there's such thing). The supporting casting in this film is brilliant, with Laura Morante, Fabrice Lucchini and Ludivine Saigner providing excellent performances that enhance Duris' own.

The third film (yes my dear reader, today we have a third example) is Becoming Jane. A young Jane Austen enjoys writing and is applauded within her family circle, but there's something missing in her work she can't put her finger on. Enter a young gentleman of French name who first despises her but then grows fonder, and after some predictable turns (that is, if you're familiar with Austen's biography) the subtle writer of character studies and keen eye for human relationships is born.

The carefully curated sets and wardrobes are very pleasant, and there isn't much humor in this story but there are moment of deep feelings and warmth. Jane Austen's biography doesn't offer the same blanks Shakespeare and Molière's do, but there's a certain dose of mystery in a seemingly plain life that produced novels that are sold and read two centuries later.

***

I admit I was surprised to see the negative reactions all three pieces received. They thread in dangerous waters: you need to know some about the life and times of the writers, so those who are unfamiliar are left outside without much to grasp. But if you have more than a passing acquaintance with them (as some Literature teachers have pointed out) they seem superficial, even disrespectful. Becoming Jane goes as far as to commit one of the most heinous crimes a cast director could ever attempt: the actress playing Austen is, gasp, American (the controversy surrounding that decision helped me see that there's an unwritten rule that no British actress should ever attempt to play Josephine March, and no American should reciprocate with Elizabeth Bennet).

So I don't think this trend will grow like weed, but for the next installment count me in. I love them.

Picture one
Picture two
Picture three

Birthday

2010-07-26T14:22:00.005-03:00

Today is a day my aunt Marga (or Marge) has been anticipating for years. Today she's 90 years old.

Along with her sister with whom she shared the birthday - though not the birth year, they are two of the relatives that influenced me most.

When I was a child I wanted to be like her, organized, decided, relentless, generous, elegant, cultivated and intelligent. I wanted a house like hers, with a fireplace and a green patio and that incredibly homey smell, although I thought her husband was a tad aloof and intimidating and I'm not at all fond of dogs. I always found captivating the alluring mystery of a loving adult who at the same time, refused to discuss certain matters with me without being condescending.

Her husband died in 1989, and the couple had only one son who's had many relationships with women but never wanted to have children, so she doesn't have any grandchildren. My sister and I filled that void and looking back I can say that it was a great honor. I find it amazing that she knows exactly who I am, and in spite of the 60 year gap she now treats me like an adult and speaks about things she never wanted to say before. In return I treat her like an adult too, which is not how people usually react with an elderly person.

Next December it's going to be 10 years since my grandmother, her best friend, passed away. Ever since, or maybe it started before but I couldn't detect it, her health has declined. It's something in her brain that wrecks her balance and mobility and her ability of speech. She keeps a routine, dresses up every day, wears make up and worries about her hair looking good. She also makes decisions on what to buy at the groceries' store (even if she forgets the names of about half the products she wants to order), plays chess against the computer (she can't go to her chess club anymore), and reads the newspaper.

Sometimes she remembers one particular thing of her past, sometimes it's another. She was one of the first female graduate architects and when she was a teenager, she volunteered with the Spanish Republican army committee in Montevideo; she once owned a car and she has always been fiercely independent, so her anecdotes are extremely interesting. She might forget names of people, of places (like Uruguay!), or nouns, or verbs, and sometimes it's a whole verb tense so she may speak only in present, so it's hard to jump on a wagon of her train of thought. It's worth the effort, though.

Nevermind what comes and goes, she always makes a point of being "almost ninety", or "one year three months shy of ninety". Being ninety years old has been a goal in itself, and I'm curious of what she's going to do next. Knowing her like I do, I'm sure she'll dive in it with all the purpose and energy in the world. And I'll be with her.

That's what granddaughters are for.

Let's take off the masks

2010-07-19T19:15:00.005-03:00

A few days ago this message arrived to my inbox, from a friend who lives in Minneapolis. He said it was from the Guardian.co.uk, but a google search didn't bring any hits from sites uk. My search found a comment in the New York Times Goal Blog from RPG (Switzerland), which the author claimed to have found on The Guardian, but again, there's no more information than just that.

Let's take a look at it:

It's because most football fans are thundering hypocrites, full of their own self-righteousness and unable to see beyond the end of their own noses. So Germany's goalkeeper and players pretend Lampard's shot didn't cross the line, when the entire stadium knew otherwise. Ghana kick, play act, wave imaginary cards and dive for a free kick that should never have been awarded. Holland dive shamefully (in the form of Robben and Van Persie), and go around trying to maim Uruguayan opponents (in the form of the near psychotic Van Bommel). But they're not cheats: honestly, they're not. They're choirboys, playing Pele's beautiful game.
The only "cheats", apparently, are a team which was one of the most fouled against in the tournament; whose magnificently combative midfielders Perez and Arevalo tackled almost perfectly throughout the tournament; whose defensive organisation was amazing; but who had a player who did something in the last minute of the quarter-final that many, many players have done throughout history. It's so good to know that all those condemning Suarez have now renounced England's win in 1966 - because Jack Charlton dived full length to punch away a Portugese shot in the semi-final, and wasn't even booked, never mind sent off.
Except they haven't - because they're hypocrites. Stinking, lousy hypocrites, whose real reason for wanting to see the back of Uruguay is, I fear, in all too many cases, because they're South American. South American players are greased up, scheming, evil Machiavellian crooks, don't you know? The Dutch are beautiful; African sides incapable of anything cynical.
It's all such utter, pathetic nonsense. Suarez was punished; that should be the end of it. And beyond that, the ignorance displayed on these pages towards a nation of 3.5m whose achievements are miraculous, whose spirit is indomitable, who over-achieved magnificently at this World Cup, went down fighting despite being over-matched tonight and shorn of FOUR key players (and a fifth, Forlan, who played while injured throughout), and who chronic under-achievers like England should be LEARNING from, is simply breathtaking.
After the miracle of 1950, Jules Rimet explained what had happened with the words: "In football, playing well is not sufficient. You also need to feel it profoundly, as does Uruguay".
You have to FEEL it. That is the spirit with which Uruguay play; that is the spirit which England all too often lack. A nation of 3.5m people, with two world titles, two Olympic titles, 14 Copa America, and who have now reached more World Cup semi-finals than Argentina, who have 12 times as many people to choose from? Uruguay should be being saluted on these pages: I think they've been fantastic. But this is nasty, insular little England, with nasty, insular little posters like sicklemoon - so look what they get instead.
Well done to Holland. Even with the officials generally embarrassing themselves, you were the better side, have a fantastic record, and good luck in the final. And to Uruguay: farewell, ignore the nonsense as I know you will, and may you go one better in Brazil in four years time. Let's face it: in Brazil of all places, history beckons.

I'm impressed. It's good to read nice things about one's country and countrymen, and this writer is right on spot here, meaning that s/he seems to have been reading our minds. We know our football and we're aware we're the smallest country to have achieved a feat or two in this game... leaving aside anything older than 50 years, we still have a pretty decent record on continental cups (which is not bad considering our border neighbors have won a few World Cups each), as well as clubs tournaments. We've been a recognized greenhouse of world class players for decades now, which has made the rather poor World Cup performances of the past 40 years all the more heartbreaking. Is Uruguay a well kept secret in the football world?

Or maybe what I've said is just an ego trip. Growing up hearing it over and again it's a part of our national subconscious it's hard to utter and understand otherwise. The original writer seems to know that, maybe it's a Uruguayan with perfect British English?

I thought the officiating, especially in the games against Ghana and Netherlands, systematically handicapped Uruguay, but probably every fan felt the officiating hurt their team, so I don't think I can make a point with it. But isn't the reader saying the same thing when s/he says "the most fouled against team" and to Holland "in spite of the officials generally embarrassing themselves" as in "they gave you a helping hand"? I'd like to have this mask off and know, who wrote this?

The unabashed hatred from the ever influential English press, which I suspect roots from the denied Lampard goal (the referee trio was from Uruguay, right?) more than anything else, took me by surprise. Isn't the unwritten rule of this game to do as much as the referee allows you to, and do anything it takes to win? So, would they be this harsh had it been an English player securing England's qualifying for the semis instead of a team from a tiny country? Or are we just witnessing a rule of the press: get attention no matter how?

Maybe is it that abusing a country with a population sized a decimal fraction of population (centesimal if you're from the US) is really easy? If that's true, then we'll have to rely on masked defendors, just as the purported Guardian.co.uk commentator.

Questions and more questions. If you have an answer, please feel free to speak your mind in the comments section.

Language note: I know I should be saying soccer instead of football, but I'd really like to use that word for this game.
Pronounciation note: If you're an English speaker and you'd like to know how to properly pronounce Uruguay, it's not "you are gay" as Homer Simpson once suggested, but rather "oo-roog-WHY"

Third time's the charm... sometimes

2010-07-19T19:00:00.002-03:00

2010 should be remembered as the third times' year in professional sports.

This is Marian Hossa.

He's a Slovak hockey player who plays in the NHL, the North American top hockey league, and routinely competes with the Slovak national team in international tournaments. At the end of the 2007-2008 season he was traded from the Atlanta Thrashers to the Pittsburgh Penguins. The Penguins qualified for the playoffs and won all three series in the Eastern Conference, to play the final series against the Detroit Red Wings.

The Red Wings won in 6 games, hoisting the Cup in Pittsburgh.

That summer, the Penguins offered Hossa a 5 year contract but he declined, preferring a one year contract with none but the Detroit Red Wings with whom, he said, he thought he had a better chance to win the Cup. And it wasn't a big deal with anyone, come to think of it he had been with the Penguins only for the playoffs.

Season 2008-2010 found the Red Wings strong once again, qualifying for the playoffs and beating the Chicago Blackhawks in 5 games in the Western Conference final and getting to play the Stanley Cup finals with the Eastern Conference champions... once again, the Pittsburgh Penguins.

This time, the Penguins won. It took them 7 games, playing the final game in Detroit.

Journalists and fans alike had a field day with him, and seriously, how often do you find someone in his position?

That summer, his contract with the Red Wings over, he signed with the Chicago Blackhawks, a team full of young and talented players. The Blackhawks qualified for the playoffs and fortunaly he didn't cross paths with any of his former teams this time.

Maybe that helped the Chicago Blackhawks win their first Championship in 49 years and thus ending the longest winning drought in the NHL. As they say, third time's the charm. Interestingly enough, there weren't any apologetic articles from the journalists that 12 months before had poked fun at this player... Anyways, he holds a record for playing at the Stanley Cup playoffs for four years in a row in four different teams, and playing the finals three years in a row, obviously, with three different teams. A field day for sports statistics lovers, no doubt, now that nobody (as far as I know) has given him a fraction of the attention he got when Detroit lost in 2009. I really don't think he cares, though.

The second third time I'd like to mention today, is this one.

The Dutch royal family is the Orange-Nassau and the country's official color. While it's nowhere in their national flag, their national teams sport the hue in their outfits, and they've so been recognized for a long time.

The Netherlands football team's performance in the FIFA World Cups in 1974 and 1978 was stellar, displaying a style of playing never seen before that proved immensely influential in the following years. The "total football" approach gained them the nickname "orange clockwork", which they' ve held ever since even if their international performance in the roughly thirty years after it wasn't, as a whole, that visible and impressive.

In 1974 the Orange played its first World Cup final game against host and champion of 1954, West Germany.

That day, West Germany won its second Cup.

The Orange kept with the good work, reaching the finals again four years later again against host, and already defeated once in the finals, Argentina. So, none had ever won the Cup but both had played one final (though Dutch players were still active while the original Argentinian players were senior citizens).

Maybe it's because a final played by the host under a dictatorial regime is, let's say, more stressful for everybody like players, referees and fans (like Italy in 1934), or maybe because at least one Dutch star refused to play in a country under said regime. Simply put, Argentinians scored more that particular day.

And the Dutch went home empty handed again. Funny they didn't think of hosting a Cup themselves, don't you think?

The Orange's appearances at the following seven World Cups had ups and downs, but it wasn't until South Africa 2010 that they managed to reach the final stage again. This time the hosts had been eliminated in the first round and the contender was newcomer Spain, who had never been this far in the tournament. In the semis former champions Germany and Uruguay got to play for the third place, and the Dutch squad, undefeated for two years, faced current Euro Champion Spain.

I saw the game and definitely the Dutch playing style has a focus on effectiveness. Sometimes tougher than ice hockey players the Orange squad got to the finals undefeated from the start of the tournament, allowing more than one goal (two to be exact) just once in the semis against Uruguay. The Spanish style, instead, reminds a little more of the "total football" of Netherlands of yore, with short passes and absolutely breaking the opponent's game. It's also very effective. And boring if you're not an absolute fan of the game.

The game ended tied with no goals and went to extra time. Just five minutes before it was over, Spain scored. So third time... wasn't the charm for the orange clad people. Many thought they deserved to win because they were seasoned veterans in the final playing games, while Spain would benefit of the experience anyway. Sports, however, are not about deserving but winning.

For the sports statistics fans, Netherlands is the team having played more finals without winning any, but it's still not the team having lost more finals overall. That's Germany at four out of seven played, while Brazil, also with seven appearances, won five of them. Uruguay is the team with the longest winning drought, 60 years, and England is the next one at 44 years. The other members of the list are Argentina at 24, Germany at 20, France at 12, Brazil at 8 and Italy at 4 (seriously, how many of those can be called droughts?)

Having a third example would be fantastic, but unfortunately I don't know of any. If you can help, please let me know of that in the comments.

picture one, picture two, picture three, picture four

picture five, picture six, picture seven, picture eight

Language note: this blog is written in American English so I should use the word "soccer" instead of "football". I choose to disregard the consistency on this particular point, but I promise to keep at bay any other disgressions.

Neighbors

2010-07-12T10:57:00.004-03:00

For some years we've been living in the same building, and I've been getting to know her bit by bit. At the main door, on the street, at the grocery's store, at the hairdresser's, even at the beach, we see each other and we say "hello".

But it's when I don't see her that I get to know her better. At first, I would only see her and she had the allure of a woman of a certain age: slim, elegant and smoking a cigarette with that "je ne sais quoi". But one day something broke off in her life and I started hearing her too. When she's sad she listen to the same song loudly for hours, and I can't escape her song and her sadness unless I leave my home.

One coworker who lives across our homes told me that me she never draws the curtains of her rooms, and she makes some sort of reality show out of her everyday life. The hairdresser, that she is an English translator and she lost her job during the 2002 recession and stayed unemployed for a long time. The store's delivery guy, that her dog died of lung cancer and she was inconsolable, and the cashier woman that she buys whiskey often. The doorman, that it was her brother who bought her the appartment. Like an unwelcome visitor interrumpting my life, the bits of her miserable existence join in a puzzle to which I reluctantly add a new piece every now and then, even if I've never asked anyone anything about her.

But this puzzle is made in the first person too when I hear her domestic fights with someone else. I don't know, I don't want to know whether it's always the same person, but often I hear noises of things falling, of glass rolling and breaking (bottles, I suppose), or big objects falling to the ground (I hope it's not her). One night, long ago, bottles went flying out of her windows and ended their trip on the garage roof, while she cried, madly, give it back to me, it's mine! Her voice, broken, hoarse, ashy and alcoholic had no link to the worldly woman I cross on the street, always perfectly styled and walking, nonchalantly, on tower high heels.

Last night at her balcony, she smoked and tried to phone somebody. Why did you leave? Come, come right now. I'm not feeling well, I'm not joking. She spoke non stop and then she stayed silently, crying her soul out, and then started again. Please don't hang on me, come now, come. I'm going to kill myself if you don't.

And I replied softly, You already did.

For some years I've been living on top of a swamp of liquor and despair named Graciela.

This text was originally published in French, under the title "Voisinage" on October 21st, 2007.

Il fait quelques années que nous habitons le même bâtiment, et que je la connais progressivement. À l'entrée de l'édifice, dans la rue, au supermarché, chez la coiffeuse, même à la plage, je la vois et nous nous disons bonjour.

Mais c'est quand je ne la vois pas que je connais plus d'elle. Avant, je la voyais et elle avait l'air d'une femme mûre mais trés interessante: mince, élegante, fumant un cigarette avec ce je ne sais quoi. Mais un jour, quelque chose s'est déclanché chez elle, et j'ai commencé à l'écouter. Quand elle est triste, elle écoute la même chanson encore et encore, au volume trés haut, et moi, je ne peux pas échapper sa chanson et sa tristesse qu'en quittant ma maison.

Une copine de travail qui habite en face, me racconte qu'elle ne ferme jamais les fenêtres ou les rideaux, et qu'elle fais une sorte de big brother tous les jours de sa vie. La coiffeusse, qu'elle était traductrice d'anglais, mais qu'elle avait perdu son travail pendant la crise de l'an 2002 et elle reste chomeuse. Le jeune homme du supermarché qui fait les livraisons, qu'à la mort de son chien de cancer de poumon elle avait beaucoup souffert, et la femme à la caisse, qu'elle achéte de whisky trés fréquemment. Le conciérge, que son frére lui a achété son appartement. Comme une visitante qu'interrompe dans ma vie, les morceaux de sa existence malheureuse font un puzzle auquel j'ajoute une nouvelle piéce de temps en temps, bien que je n'aie jamais démandé personne sur aucune des ces donnés.

Mais ce puzzle se fait aussie en premiére personne quand je l'écoute se disputant avec quelq'un. Je ne sais pas, je ne veux pas savoir, s'il s'agît toujours de la même personne ou pas, mais parfois il y a des bruits des choses qui tombent, des choses en verre (des bouteilles, j'imagine), ou des corps (j'espére que ce ne sera pas elle). Une nuit, quelque temps avant, des bouteilles sortaient par las fenêtres et finissaient leur periple sur le toit du garage, et elle criait, affolée, rendre-me le, c'est à moi. Sa voix, grave, cassée, alcoolique et cendré, n'avait rien a voir avec la femme mondaine que je vois dans la rue, toujours bien coiffée et marchant, naturellement, sur des stilettos.

Hier soir, elle fumait au balcon et essaiyait de téléphoner quelqu'un. Pourquoi tu t'en est allé? Viens, viens maintenant. Je ne me sens pas bien, ce n'est aucune plaisanterie. Elle parlait sans cesse et ensuite elle restait silencieuse, pleurant en chaud larmes, et elle recommençait N'accroche pas, s'il te plaît, viens maintenant, viens. Sinon, je vais me tuer. Et moi, j'ai répondu en faible voix, Tu l'as déjà fait.

Il fait quelques années que j'habite au dessus d'un marais de frustration et d'alcool qui s'appelle Graciela.

Not that I really mind...

2010-07-05T15:58:00.003-03:00

Every time I iron I'm faced with profound questions that arise from the steps I take to perform the task.

The first one is, exactly, why do irons have such short cords? Where is the obscure relationship between electricity outlets placement as a whole and the realm of optimal ironing surfaces? Maybe the missing link is between irons and extension cords manufacturers. Or perhaps it's a design safety suggestion: with a short cord there's no way you can misplace it, like stuffing it in a drawer while it's in use or something equally reckless.

The second question is... why do irons lack power switches? Do they use so much power that a switch is useless? Or is this another design caveat? I guess I've always lived in substandard houses where I had to do everything from kneel to shuffle furniture around in order to be able to iron a shirt, but the switch thing really bums me... am I the only one to notice plugs are one of the most fragile parts of appliances?

Those questions, I guess, could be answered by a irons and small home appliances designer, but the next one is only up to me: will one day ironing stop meaning "erasing old creases to create new ones" and will start meaning "ironing"? Not that I really mind it, but some days I'd rather not be this rumpled.

Photo from here.

Gameday

2010-06-28T15:08:00.003-03:00

It might happen anyday, for all a foreign person knows. It would look like a normal day in a normal town; if it's a weekday people would be busy, if it's a weekend, our hypothetical foreign person would probably be stricken by the calmness. The many national flags hanging on windows of homes and cars would be a telling clue, but if our foreign person is American he or she wouldn't even notice. There would be certain nervousness, anticipation if you like, but with such laid back people I understand, it's really hard to detect.

Then, just like that, the streets would be absolutely empty. No cars, no pedestrians, probably no public transportation either. Our foreign person would wonder if there is going to be an attack and people are told to stay indoors. The same streets that 10 minutes ago were bustling with activity (or so it would seem now) are now desert. Some stores might be closed, with no apparent indication on whether it's their normal opening hours or they just went out of business.

After a while, the silence gets oppresive. Not a wailing siren of an ambulance or fire brigade, no obnoxious neighbors pumping up the jam, just an elderly lady crossing the street and a beggar sitting on the corner with his dog. The day might be cold, but not that cold. It isn't a national holiday, our foreign person knows for sure because he or she checked that before. It might...

Suddenly a deafening sound erupts, and it's mostly human voices. Cars blare their horns, there might be some firecrackers, a glimpse of people holding each other in elation. Silence again, and a while later mayhem breaks out and people take over the streets. A foreign person would probably wonder what great thing the locals are celebrating, and probably would find the answer quickly.

The foreign person has just witnessed one Fifa World Cup gameday in Montevideo, Uruguay, in June 2010. The Uruguayan national squad was unbeaten during the four games it played during that month, and regardless of what's in store for it in July, it's quite a solid reason already to celebrate. Which is what they do.

It is what we do while it lasts. May it last a long time.

Real genius

2010-06-21T13:27:00.002-03:00

I was a kid when the movie Amadeus was released, and I remember when I watched it first with my parents, sister and grandmother in a cozy pizza, drinks and conversation one winter Saturday evening by the fireside. My mother plays the piano and in the 80's both my sister and I were taking music lessons too, so we did know who was this Mozart person well before seeing the film. We knew he had lived long ago, that by our ages he already mastered the instruments we played, but we weren't really conscious of his time and space and we were really impressed by the movie.

Curiously enough, it weren't the lavish costumes or the luxurious classical interiors displayed in the film what caught our attention, but rather was the notion that for all his talent and consequence Mozart was probably an unhappy man. Around that time we also saw the documentary From Mao to Mozart by Isaac Stern (my sister played the violin and her teacher lent us the tape) and the swedish film The magic flute by Ingmar Bergman, so it was clear that the movie was about Mozart's life but not his work.

In spite of the exposition to Mozart's work (we both were able to play some simple tunes) in the classical musicians' popularity ranking we ran at home, he wasn't the one at the very top. It wasn't Beethoven either, Haydn, Schumann or even Hanon or Kaiser (the authors of our exercises books), but the one and only Johann Sebastian Bach.

Bach deserves every music student and amateur's respect, but now I suspect our devotion was rooted more in the conservatory we attended and the teachers we had (all members of the same family) rather than personal choice. Anyways. After watching Amadeus we ground my mother on biographical information on Bach, anecdotes of his whereabouts and whether he had also lead such a glamorous and chaotic life.

Turns out that we found soon that Bach was a product of his time and place. As it was usual then, his craft was his ancestors' and he passed it on to his descendants. Like everyone who hadn't a nobiliary title he worked hard, occasionally struggled with poverty, married a woman who died of birth complications or illness (but with today's medicine she had probably survived) and then married a second one, had many children but not all of them survived childhood, never traveled far, and never did anything outrageous or exceptional in his long life - unless he was at work. But his work, we realized, spoke by itself and his life wasn't movie material.

I'm not excessively fond of musicians' biopics but after watching two about Beethoven, I've always wondered about a film on Johann Sebastian. My guess was that it had to be a very boring movie, or an incredibly technical one explaining some of the wonderful innovations he made to the art - likely to be stone boring, too.

But in the past months I've found out that not one but two, yes, TWO different groups of people (at least) have taken the challenge. And maybe because I'm older now I found them quite satisfying actually.

The older film is from 1968 and its title is Chronik der Anna Magdalena. It's European arthouse at its prime: there must be maybe 3 minutes of acting and the rest is a female voice in the background reading letters Anna Magdalena wrote while musicians in period costumes play period instruments. Every letter comprises only one piece of music and is shot in only one take and plane - the camera doesn't move at all. Some pieces don't have the off voice, but it's just the performance. Boring? Well, for audiences expecting another version of Amadeus, yes, probably. But it conveys the life and times of the Bach in a surprisingly timeless fashion (which is more than I can say of Amadeus, which hasn't aged very well).

The newer film was released in 2003 and it's Mein Name ist Bach, and again it's more about life in Bach times than a biography, but unlike every other musicians' biopic I've seen before (not that they are too many), its focus is all about character. Well based and with only a couple of assumptions that can be argued from existing documents, it describes a meeting between Johann Sebastian and his two sons Friedemann and Emanuel with Frederich II of Prussia. Issues like family bounds, popularity, employment, health and aging are in our favorite composer's mind. Power, expectations, abilities are on the monarch's. Together they play a cat and mouse game with music, instruments and performance as their hostages, but not their real interest. Given that the works of both Bach and the King have survived until today but there has been little delving into their personalities, I think this is a great film in spite of the poor reviews.

While nobody argues Bach's genius, I think it does take some hard work to figure out how to tell his story, even a little of it. Some hard work, and maybe even some real genius.

Perils of Facebook

2010-06-14T14:20:00.002-03:00

A lot has been said on data and personal safety matters and Facebook. Often I read articles in the newspapers saying this or that. Still, a big issue hasn't been mentioned.

How it is to find that your former schoolmates still write as if they were in school? How about finding that your colleague loves gore movies, that your childhood friend believes that UFO's are coming, or that your cousin wants to reveal the world your worse fashion missteps?

Facebook is dangerous indeed. I'd never guessed there was so much to be left unsaid.

It's never too soon to feel like a relic from the past

2010-06-07T14:30:00.001-03:00

Recently I read the book "Twilight", by Stephenie Meyer and the excerpt available at her website with the tale told from the point of view of the male protagonist. I'd read very good comments about the movies, and was curious about the book.

I must say I found "Twilight" deeply disturbing at many levels. I'll explain:

1. Bella, the owner of the voice telling the story, (a voice we can "hear" also in her thoughts) has a very low self esteem. While I don't think that's unusual for teenagers, I got the nagging impression that it was positive she didn't have a good image of herself. That's a terrible message for teenage girls! Putting yourself down is not a good strategy to start a relationship with a boy, and even less to build it.

2. Bella's relationships with her parents are sick. The mother is very immature and there was a shift in the relationship (sad but I've seen that in real life) but the father is a whole another story. They are practically estranged but he longs for her, he tries hard to rebuild the relationship and all he gets is a slap in the face and a lie "for his own good" when she leaves. While I know the hardships of the interactions of teenagers and their parents, I thought Bella was cruel to her father and it completely tainted her character. Twilight isn't meant to be a guiding book for teenagers, but I thought it was wrong to picture a person who's finding her own path into adulthood in a story where adults' feelings and views aren't taken seriously. Adults here seem to be more of a prop for the purpose of bothering.

3. Edward, the voice telling us the counterpart, is unreal. I know, I know, Twilight is a work of fiction, but I thought there were so many wrong things that the story (at least the story of feelings and Bella's coming of age) is distorted beyond admission. First of all, Edward is ageless. He isn't an adult and he isn't young either. He's seen a lot, but a lot of the same thing. He hasn't really grown up in a long time, and since his appearance won't change his life and attitudes won't, either. Secondly, he's beautiful. And while he deeply admires Bella, he doesn't think of her in sexual terms and he despises a popular teenager in their high school who has "dirty" (a.k.a. sexual) thoughts about her. Third, he's a talented piano performer and composer.

I think teenage girls should know that boys: a. Will grow up or are in the process of, b. Don't particularly appreciate being seen as "beautiful", c. Probably care more about hobbies and activities that are important to other boys (so sports are more likely than classical instruments) and d. Really think a lot about sex. Everything that is so charming about Edward is actually against western manliness, and I think he doesn't make any sense as a male hero.

4. Edward is kind of dangerous. Because he's a vampire, and even "vegetarian" vampires as he and his band are not the most commendable source of company, especially when he finds her smell so enticing. So he's a tortured soul, in the struggle of his deepest impulses (cash her in) against everything I said in the previous point (he's a true artist at heart). To add a little grit to this mushy guy there are superpowers: he can read minds, move faster than light and he's very strong. So he protects her even though he would like to kill her and he doesn't plan (at least at the beginning) on starting a relationship with her. Confusing, eh?

This was probably the most disturbing fact of the whole book. Edward is a dangerous guy and Bella shouldn't be with him. In the book, Edward is a vampire (I know, I know) but in real life there are plenty of seductively dangerous people a teenage girl should avoid. A teenage guy too for that matter, but I think teenage boys might not be as sensitive to the message as girls.

So I ended the book thinking: the message here is if a teenage girl with low self esteem and a crappy relationship with her parents finds a dangerous guy, her innocence will enable her to change him for good and he will protect her from any harm with his (outlawed, even if it's physics laws) tools. Any belated effort made by her parents to ensure her well being will be just to bother her and prevent her from achieving her real happiness, so as in the process of growing up, they should be left behind.

Am I so wrong? Did the story hit nerves I didn't know I had? Or there should be an uproar against these books? I don't know... I'm not good friends with obscurantism, but here I feel these books should have been edited more carefully and maybe, it's just that it's never too soon to feel like a relic from the past.

In defense of readers and reading

2010-05-31T15:00:00.003-03:00

I've been a great fan of the blog format ever since I discovered it some five years ago, and stuck along with the changes. I like the speed of publishing, the editorial policies (one person or a small group but usually no corporate interests), and the feedback from the readers. I like people telling about their personal lives, about their thoughts, and mostly, I love being able to access the immense worth of people sharing their work, passion at talent. I also like intelligent comments, often they add a lot of value to one article, and reading a good debate is priceless.

Of course there aren't only roses but somehow when the novelty worn off, the format sort of depurated itself. Blogs these days are of much better quality, and blogs like mine (of lazy, uneven people) seem to be the minority.

There is a moment when dedicated bloggers take a leap of faith and start making their blog their full time occupation. I can't picture myself doing it, but plenty people out there have done it and so far it seems to work out well for them.

I've been reading some of those people who started in just another blogspot or typepad site for years, and now they make a living out of their writing. I've seen them grow and mature, and I am genuinely happy for them. I hope their blogs will keep helping them put the bread on their tables for many years to come, and that their enormous talent and passion will never fade.

While my profession and my work are not in the writing and publishing realm, and I'm very happy with it as it is, I do admire those writers who've made it. There are lots of people who deserve my admiration, I know, and they do... but there's someone who's really a class apart.

I mentioned before that something I like of blogs is interaction, the feedback from readers. I'm usually a reader, very seldom a writer, but if I like somebody's work and effort and I think I have something to add, I'll try and share it. I imagine that being online for many hours, doing research, writing, publishing and getting in touch with colleagues and clients must be tiresome, and since I'm not someone who will bring along a new sponsor or a big purchase mine is a little voice, but there is one blogger out there who consistently makes me feel like the time I spend reading is appreciated and worthwhile.

The writer in question is Holly Becker, from Decor8 (http://decor8blog.com/). Mrs. Becker states in her blog: "As a writer and interior design consultant I created Decor8 to catalog beautiful finds and to inspire others". Together with her other, more personal blog, (Haus Maus, http://hollymaus.blogspot.com/), she's one of the most delightful reads of my day. She writes about artists and crafts for home decoration, with a keen eye and an impeccable style, and sometimes she adds a more personal note about her life and her profession.

Those qualities aside, which have deservedly earned her reputation, Mrs. Becker is exceptionally attentive and kind to her readers. While blogs are basically about oneself (I made, I like, I think), she treats all of her readers with a lot of respect and it transpires often. She never sounds like she owns the truth or like she thinks she's a genius, which is fresh air among one person blogs. It doesn't matter we readers might be thousands, she's not a condescending queen and we're not pitiful subjects; she's generous with her work and humble in her attitude. She's thoughtful with the comments she receives, and takes the time to reply personal messages from starstruck readers like me.

If there were courses for people wishing to make a living out of their writing, celebrity bloggers wannabes, I would say: take a leaf out of Holly Becker's book. That's how readers should be treated.

Where were we?

2010-05-31T11:14:00.000-03:00

Oh, alright, I haven't published in a while. Certain personal events monopolized my thoughts and for some reason I didn't want to share... however I still want this outlet. Just in case.

Building domesticity

2009-08-08T23:50:00.004-03:00

By coming to Minnesota and staying for a long while, voluntarily or not, we built up a new house. A home, a place we call ours and that, as long as possible, not only does it satisfy our basic needs but also our taste.

This is something I've been thinking a lot about. About what is temporary and what is permanent. About how much is worth spending, investing, and putting up with. Adapting ourselves to a new environment, partly; adapting the environment to us, too. And how this relationship is a dynamic phenomenon - how oneself is a dynamic phenomenon -, and how something that seemed essential in the past now is accessory, and vice versa.

So a year ago, before we left, we made a list of objects we considered vital and we brought them along or we bought them the moment we got here. Winter clothing and some furniture: dining table and chairs, sofas and coffee tables, shelves, bed and mattress. And many accessories, tableware, cleaning products, bed clothes... Also a new computer for me, with all the little big options (model, capabilities, operative system) and new photo camera. It's curious, so so curious, to realize that "useful" and "necessary" are such independent concepts: no one would contest the utility of funnels, but those we bought at Ikea are still like new. The rain coats we brought with us were never used. I saved, maybe 20 dollars in more than than 1.000 of the final price in my computer by not choosing a nice cover and now, every time I look at it I thing, gosh, that's so ugly.

Useful... but how about what is necessary? If I had to make a list of what I really need in one day, or a week, a month or a season, it is startling to prove how many useless (sorry, unnecessary) things I've accumulated.

After the winter ended, and spring, and summer, the student population renovated itself actively. Many of the students graduated from the universities in the metropolis and returned to their homes, in other cities and other countries. The dumpsters were brimming with furniture and appliances in perfect shape. The list of sales in housing cooperatives filled our eyes. The question rose again: what do we really need of all this? And because so many times what is offered is free, the temptation to take it and decide after whether we need it or not, is strong.

And like Oscar Wilde, we resist everything but temptation.

This is how we've been witnesses of our home, empty and minimalist a year ago, getting filled with object of varied nature. And now, fortunately, it seems like our home. Or better said, a home of ours.

To begin with, we hated the echo and the empty walls. So we went out in the quest for things to hang. Flyers and cards from the newspaper or give outs from coffee shops at first, and more recently, textiles. The first textiles to arrive were some curtains pretty much the same color as the walls, courtesy of the car's previous owners. They are not very useful darkening the place (isn't that curtains ultimate purpose?), but I believe they absorb a little of the noise and the reflect the heat. The dining room's wall has a sheet (yes people, that's a bed sheet) with a design that reminds me of african but was bought at Free Tibet. There we also bought there a little embroidered tapestry, with tiny mirrors. In another place of tibetan influence (seems Tibetan is big here in Minnesota) we got three long scarves that we hung in the wall behind the bed. They are badly cut but I still like them. We bought a carpet (a combined moment of weakness with a low price), and the following week we were given another one, both from Ikea.

I think we reached the quota of textiles needed to absorb noise, temperature and a good deal of dust too.

Once we were offered a chest of drawers of objectionable quality and in calamitous state. It had the two tale tell signs of the low quality furniture: 1. a dark wood looking plastic veneer (as if I was going to think that's solid oak), and 2. antique gold looking hardware (oh yeah, and that must be real gold). It has a third one, actually, and it's that it looks as if it had nine drawers, but it's only five. Like a clumsy trompe l'oeil. A monument to tacky-tude, if you ask me.

Disheartened by the verification that I needed, yes, I totally needed that eyesore in my daily life, I opted to buy a can of paint and cover its ugliness. It still was ugly so I went on and also painted the nondescript Ikea bed (and afterward got the textiles), and since it's all of the same hue it doesn't scream for attention as it used to. That's where it's its usefulness. The usefulness of living surrounded of things one doesn't despise aloud and in which creation (or current aspect) one's creativity and handyman-ness were involved. This is how we became owners of the bedroom, adapting it not only to our needs but also to our taste.

There is a last thing about our bedroom I'd like to mention today. The window faces the east, so we're delighted by the morning sun. We're also delighted but the corner streetlight at night. We live delighted and enlightened, and the darkness to fall asleep was hard to get. Two friends gave us a blackout curtain, but the light flooding from 4 sides was still too much, so Fefo built an edging from cardboard. It's certainly not what you'd call glamorous, but it works perfectly. I wanted to paint it too, but Fefo suggested leaving it alone, so it goes on nonchalantly cardboard color and all.

Given this apartment is designed for people who can't cook, and was built in a time when microwave ovens didn't exist, the kitchen almost has no countertop room for anything (less a microwave oven). It has, indeed, something that seems very common: an elephant sized sink. I used to think it was an exclusive horror piece of our lodgings, but turns out it isn't. Maybe they were cheaper... who knows? So to make do for this lack of room, Fefo salvaged 3 shelves from a dumpster and built a small table. We went to Menard's looking for a thingy or whatisnameisgotit to hold all three pieces, and it was yours truly who suggested getting a square sheet of ply wood. It does work much better than the metal anglers we had originally in mind.

Some time later, the people who sold us their car gave us one of those tall racks designed to hold a sound system. We don't have any sound system to accommodate there, but it's great to hold glasses, cups, the cutlery set and the pans. It also has some tiny invisible wheels, so you can move it around to clean the floor or reach for that important paper that fell off the back. It's kind of ugly and I thought about covering its plastic veneered pride, but so far I've left it alone.

Recently a Malayan acquaintance moving out of state offered us his microwave oven, its rack and other miscellanea. The oven went to the homemade table (and looks as if it had been born there) and the rack is our landing strip and street shoe rack. It now holds boots and a box with gloves and scarves.

When I finally got to store my underwear in the formerly extenuatingly ugly drawer chest (currently simply ugly), the box with divisions under the bed got free and I thought about dumping it. But I thought it over and realized this Dell Computer box with its flaps cut off and used as inner division walls makes a great place to store my shoes (mostly flat sensible shoes). Yes, and I can move all my shoes with one swift movement to clean the floor of the closet.

I'm not very sure this is how everybody's minds work, or if this is born out of necessity. I don't know if forgetting about the original intention and just getting to see the object, its bare functionality and potential happens everyday or just when you have to make do with things and no money at all. But it makes me feel like a genius when I manage to solve a new problem with old objects, doesn't that happen to you, too?

Whenever I read people criticizing Ikea or any other furniture maker I think, designers are supposed to make things more livable but it's up to us who actually do the living, and that's a bit of a responsibility to.

It's us, with our wits and our ever changing requirements and tastes, the ones who take credit for turning grandma's old vanity into a linen chest and counters for the until then empty kitchen, and then years later, when the moths are eating it up we salvage the drawers fronts to make shelves for that child's room nook, and save the old brass handles to give the perfect touch to that closet or making a new key hanger.

I love shopping as much as the next person, but I simply can't compare the immense satisfaction painting, repurposing and salvaging give me. That satisfaction, I call, making my home my own.

***

You can see some pictures of the projects here http://fefoyjulia.blogspot.com/2009/02/domestico-en-construccion-fotos.html

Exercise 4: Listening

2009-08-08T21:47:00.004-03:00

When my sister and I were kids, and on Sunday afternoons my dad would take us for a walk, my biggest worry was that I wasn't good enough at math. Everyone at school is better and faster than I, was my complaint. (Had I had Spelling Bees contests I would have crowned myself the queen bee, but unfortunately there weren't any around).

So well. In one of those walks my father told me that I didn't have to worry about being the fastest or had my homework perfectly done for the sake of it, but that the importance of math (for someone aged 8) had to be able to know if the money was enough at the store, or how much time and at what rate I had to save money in order to purchase something (a doll or a book, the summit of my then ambitions). What actually matters is how you deal in real life, he told me while our legs swallowed blocks and blocks.

Flash forward to a decade later, which I spent entirely studying two foreign languages at the same time, and occasionaly three. I was always good at it, but my grades never shone. Partly because of a private method of learning (I would focus my energies in class and never submitted a piece of homework until the advanced courses), which for some reason wasn't very popular among my teachers, and partly because I would always perform quite poorly in one of the four tests.

Basically, foreign languages courses are built around four linguistic competences: to speak, to listen, to read and to write (to express oneself and to understand others, in other words). Since I've always been an avid reader and I have good memory for words, when I spoke I could summon words I had never heard, and when I wrote, I was using ideas I had actually already read somewhere else. But going through the listening exercises was always extremely difficult: I would lose focus the moment the teacher would press PLAY, and I have never been able to watch a film without captions. I once sat for a listening only test and failed. And though the grumpiness of having failed lasted for about 8 years (and when it worn out I sat again and passed), I never truly worried about not having great marks because of having a carrot stuck in my ear, because what actually matters is how you deal in real life.

Flash forward to yet another decade later. I went down my path well far from courses, classrooms, exams and every other student life paraphernalia. In real life's full swing I've been around a year and a half submerged in the English language and I still struggle on the phone or trying to understand what people say on the radio. Let's admit I don't try too hard, but in the back my head I've always wondered... would I be up to it if I really had to? Or was I truly that bad?

And then, in an unpredictable twist of events and the ruling order of the universe and the movement of the planets, last week, the real life took care of my question.

I began a temporary job in a call center, taking calls in English and French and collecting information from clients from a certain european home appliances manufacturer. A certain line of products may have a defective piece and those clients are entitled to a free replacement, so I basically have to write down names, telephone numbers, addresses in Canada and the United States (the manufacturer deals later with that information), and no, I don't have to ask madam, are you sure it's plugged? It's for 8 hours a day, 3 days a week, in an office far from home but driving is not such a big deal.

I uncork my ear, and on top of that, they pay me for that. Wouldn't it have been great if they had paid me, years ago, when I was preparing for the Proficiency test?

---

You can read a Spanish version here: http://fefoyjulia.blogspot.com/2009/08/ejercicio-4-comprension-auditiva.html

Beautiful wool

2009-07-27T22:24:00.000-03:00

The English language has the benefit of being the source of many words widely known in other languages, which in English sometimes have both the original and the current meaning. One of those little words is shop, which alludes to a place of storage, trade or manufacturing of goods. In extension, it also means selling point and as a verb, it means either to select and or to buy. An atelier is a place where people work, e.g., a workshop. The Henry Ford factory published a book titled Shop theory which I had in my hands, and no, it's not about going shopping.

Shop is the best word I can think of to describe Bella Lana, a small store not far from my home. Since January I've taken some of the classes they offer, and I'll proceed to share my thoughts and pictures of my projects.

The first class was New Knitters. I already had some notions but it became obvious that I had plenty of basic information to learn. I learned two different ways to cast the stitches in the needle, I refreshed the basic knit and purl stitches, and also how to cast off. The most interesting part was to learn to read the materials tags, and try needles of different materials. I really liked the ones made of bamboo, but I could also try of steel, aluminum, wood and plastic.

In this first class I knitted a scarf in Ella Rae Classic wool, from Romania, in two shades of green, and for the termination I used crochet (I had started the second class). I used bamboo needles number 7, of 4.5 mm of diameter. The buttons were Federico's idea, and the width of the scarf is the length of his neck. When Federico wears the scarf he winds it around his neck and fastens both buttons (I say it looks like a cataplasm but he finds it very comfortable); when I wear it I prefer fastening the buttons to the coat and fastening the coat's to the scarf's eyelets - it stays in place and it doesn't squeeze my neck.

The second class, Crochet, was really hard. The other students flew by and I could hardly cast a stitch after the other. It somehow makes sense because I've never been too attracted to crochety lace, so I understand it wouldn't worry me that I didn't manage. But it was almost a revelation to discover the virtues of the simple crochet fabric, and the versatility of the technique. The instructor used wool, thread, pearls, wire and other elements and it dazed me.

In this class I knitted a little bag in lilac Cascade wool, from Peru, and I used an aluminum hook number 6, G, of 4.25 mm. I afterwards knitted another one in acrylic yarn. First a foundation chain is cast and then half double crochet is knitted in circles, until taste, common sense or the end of the yarn dictate it should finish.

I also learned to join pieces using crochet, which along the termination techniques were the most practical thing about the class.

The most ambitious project I undertook so far was a sweater. I also enrolled in a class, My First Sweater, which was a good idea taking into account all the difficulties I came across and all the help I needed. I used Ella Rae again, and I used needles number 8 for the ribbing and number 7 for the rest of the body. The neck was knitted with a round needle number 7. I joined the front and the back using three needles on the shoulders and crochet (with my faithful green hook) on the sides. I began the sleeves by the ribbing, and I joined them to the body using three needles on the last row and crochet on the rest. The neck was the last thing I did: with the rest of the sweater ready I picked the stitches from the base and I knitted a ribbing identical to the one on the bottom.

It took me a great deal of hard work to finish the sweater and I'm not totally happy. As a matter of fact the original pattern was OK, but I didn't like the shoulders so the instructor searched for another pattern shoulders (which I did like) and altered mine, creating an hybrid.

I still haven't worn it. I was planning on having it ready for my birthday, but that couldn't be.

The reckless adventure called me and I decided to tackle a project on my own, following a pattern's instructions. I went to the Library and I checked out thousands of books (maybe not that many, but quite a few anyway).

Among these I selected a crochet scarf. Not hyper difficult, but with a little flavor of its own. I'm using Jamieson's Shetland Spindrift in Blue Danube and Clyde Blue, and a bamboo crochet hook of 2.75 mm.

While I carry my experiment as independent knitter, I'm also learning a technique I never saw anyone using in Uruguay (maybe I'm with my head in the clouds or maybe nobody uses it): it's double pointed needles. The goal is to be able to knit small things in tube shapes, in which the seam would be very uncomfortable or unsightly (hats, gloves and socks). With the same yarn I'm using for the scarf, I'm knitting a pair of mittens, with bamboo needles number 4, of 3.5 mm. The design is a little heavy (it aims to use a lot of yarn so it's warmer), which I tried a little ago in two needles. It's difficult, but not impossible.

I've just begun the ribbing of the first mitten, so it's not easy to see how it goes. These needles remind me of Mikado pieces, and an extra needle is used to knit the stitches. Once the initial surprise is overcame, it's a lot like knitting in two needles.

---

Knitting is a curious activity. A lot of people insist it's relaxing, but in me it has the opposite effect, like revving an engine. Almost self hypnotic, after knitting for a while my ideas are in order and I get energized to face the tasks I like the least. I can't imagine this activity as practical or economical (its original purposes, right?), but I'm amazed by its expressivity and also, the tactile feeling of the physical result of the many hours spent in work.

Federico insisted for a long time that he wanted something knitted by me. Now he has it (one scarf among many), he wears it and says it makes him happy. The instructors at Bella Lana (owners too), Cornelia and Karin, say there's nothing like the satisfaction and feeling of achievement of wearing garments made by oneself. I'm not sure about that, but I enjoy knitting and I plan on doing it for a while. It seems like a forgiving, non judgmental lifelong companion, which can be picked up time and time again and holds no hard feelings.

For now, I gather materials, ideas and knowledge.

We'll see what happens then.

---

This post was originally written in Spanish, in http://fefoyjulia.blogspot.com/2009/08/lanas-bellas.html

True indeed

2009-07-20T18:56:00.003-03:00

(...) Whatever else the peacetime service is good for, it can provide an excellent introduction to the structure of society at large. It becomes evident even to a young mind that often unacknowledged divisions in civilian life find clear and immediate expression in the military distinction between "officers" and "men". One makes the amazing discovery that grown adults walking around with college educations, wearing khaki and brass and charged with heavy-duty responsibilities, can in fact be idiots. And that working-class white hats, while in theory capable of idiocy, are much more apt to display competence, courage, humanity, wisdom, and other virtues associated, by the educated classes, with themselves. (...)

Thomas Pynchon, 1984

From Slow Learner (anthology), Introduction.

---

Maybe it was because I've never been in the military that I have witnessed idiocy and greatness indistinctly in higher and lower classes. Or maybe it was because I haven't really mingled with what Pynchon must have alluded to as working and educated classes, or maybe I just have too much education around -- around, not inside.

I shared the feeling of "amazing discovery" of something so rampantly obvious, though. In my case it was with some disappointment (I hoped education to save me irrevocably from stupidity), I don't know what Pynchon thought of it at the time.

Michael... who?

2009-07-12T18:24:00.004-03:00

Michael Jackson's death seems to be the only news of the season and everyone is trying to make a point on his legacy to popular culture, unable to avoid the scandals that surrounded him in the last 15 years. Add to it that it's summer and nothing else is going on, and you have a recipe for disaster.

To denounce the tsunami of bad taste that's making company to Jackson in his path to the beyond, I'll just quote a comment from a KSTP journalist: "and here, while his brothers take his coffin to the stage, we witness the last time that Jackson Five will ever share a stage". Oh boy! that was just creepy.

But I would like to mention some other 50 year old guy, also deceased during the last week of june, whose work and notice have been unfairly overshadowed. The joe in question was Billy Mays and he was the undisputed king of the infomercials, the late night tv stars.

I am the first to admit that I found Mays annoying as a bumblebee the first time I paid any attention to his commercials. Maybe the fifth time I saw him singing praises to OxiClean, and after a very clumsy spanish speaking piece (he was OBVIOUSLY speaking phonetic spanish and didn't seem to have a clue of what he was saying) I got to think that this man was embodying the american dream. Maybe not that perfect picture from the 50's, but an updated and slightly perturbed version. Of a fix for every problem, self-help addicted, bulletproof good mood, a little neurotic. And that's how I started paying some attention to his tv appearances.

While it is true that I never felt the faintest inclination to buy anything he was offering, the naivete of the situations made me laugh. That's like fairy tales for grown ups, I always thought, you buy that soap and your life will be better. But Mays won me with two pieces, one even more absurd than the other, that you can watch by clicking here and here.

The office add gave me the clue that Mays had sarcasm in his vocabulary. And the bearded family one, that he could laugh at anything starting with himself. Beat that, Michael Jackson, beat that or... beat it.

Oniric journal

2009-07-06T19:28:00.000-03:00

One day I decided to keep a journal of my dreams and that night I couldn't sleep.

Grandma doesn't live here anymore

2009-06-29T23:01:00.002-03:00

When I was six years old, my maternal grandmother returned to Uruguay after some years spent in Europe and Central America in political exile. We had already met once but she had always been a presence in our home with letters, pictures, presents and phone calls. It wasn't until that moment that I learned what she did for a living, though. She was a French teacher.

She had always loved the french language. Nobody in her family spoke it nor did she have any French ancestors, but she won a complete scholarship and made good use of it. One day she told me that it was with great sacrifice that her parents spared the tramway fare, so she would walk when the weather was fine. There was hardship but like two of her sisters, she got a long way down the path she chose.

She passed all of her exams with honors and she became a teacher at 18 years old. Pictures of the time show a slender young lady, with decided features and a sunny smile. It was really her. I've met men, elder men, who recall her and her two sisters. Those sisters were so intelligent, so interesting, they always say and I'm surprised they don't mention beauty.

She met my grandfather, they got married, they had children. She was the French instructor of many classes in Uruguay, Switzerland, Andorra and Mexico.

When she and my grandfather came back from exile, all her grandchildren were already born and old enough to learn so she tried hard to pass on her love for this beautiful language. I was the only one who was interested, who made some effort. When she passed away fifteen years later I kept all her french books, those of grammar and linguistics she had especially given to me but also any book written in french I happened to find among her stuff.

Obsessively I treasured those books all these years even if I never read them, even if they were yellowing paperback editions. But one day I changed my mind.

Because I realized that grandma doesn't live there anymore.

Too bad, cause I still miss her.

---

This post was originally written in French, for exam practice. You can read it below.

Grand-mamman n'habite plus ici

Quand j'avais six ans, ma grand-mère est retournée en Uruguay aprés quelques ans dans l'exile. Je la connaissais déjà, et sourtout, elle avait été toujours présente chez nous avec des lettres, des photographes, des cadeaux et des coups de fils. Mais ce n'était qu'à ce moment là que j'ai apprit ce que ma grand-mère faisait, quelle profession elle avait. Elle était professeure de Français.

Elle avait toujours aimé la langue française de toutes ses forces. Personne dans sa famille le parlait et elle n'avait des ancêtres français non plus; mais elle avait gagné une bourse pour l'étudier et elle en profita. Elle me racconta un jour que c'était un grand effort pour ses parents le payer le tram tous les jours donc elle faisait la marche à pied quand il faisait beau. Mais comme deux de ses soeurs, elle allât loin le chemin qu'elle choisit.

Elle réussita à tous les examens et elle devint professeure aux 18 ans. Les photos de cette époque montrent une jeune femme mince comme un fil, les traits décidés, le sourire limpide. C'était bien elle. J'ai rencontré des hommes, des vieux hommes, que se rappellent toujours d'elle et ces deux soeurs. Qu'elles étaient des femmes interessantes, dissent-ils toujours, et je suis étonnée qu'ils ne parlent pas de la beauté.

Elle a rencontré mon grand-pére, ils se mariérent, ils eurent des enfants. Elle fut la professeure de Français de beaucoup de générations d'étudiants, ici en Uruguay, en Suisse, en Espagne, et au Mexique.

Quand elle retourna, tous ses grands-fils étions nés et grandits, et elle essaiya de nous transmettre son amour por cette belle langue étrangére. Je fus la seule à m'en interesser, à faire l'effort. Quand elle mourut, quinze ans aprés, j'ai gardé tous ses livres de Français, ceux qu'elle m'avait confiés mais aussie n'importe quel livre français.

Obsessivement, je les ai conservés pendant ces ans même si je ne les ai lus, mais j'ai changé d'idée. Parce que je me suis rendu compte que grand-maman, elle n'habite plus ici.

Dommage, car elle me manque encore.

Rubber dream

2009-06-22T12:09:00.015-03:00

Though my experience with ice hockey has been short and it is exclusively that of one spectator I followed this year's Stanley Cup playoffs with great interest, and even got tangled up in a FaceBook thread with 3 other people attempting to guess the scores and the winner of each series. I was right quite a few times in my predictions and wrong even more often but the thing is, I watched game 7 of the finals in a state of absolute excitement. The last week of the playoffs I understood the exact meaning of "feeling antsy".

But then it was over; on Friday 12th at 10 pm CDT I got my last taste of hockey for the season, and that was it. Happy for my friend in Pittsburgh I went back home and crawled to bed, and that night, I dreamed of hockey.

I dreamed of a scarred ice, glistening like an eye about to drop a tear, and of a puck gliding and bouncing (puck has to be an onomatopoeia), of skates blades swooshing - but that had a faint echo of when I sharpen my knives against each other, and sticks slapping and whacking - and that sounded pretty much like wood. Of bodies being slammed against the boards with a thump, and of the shrilling whistle of the referee's call bringing it all to a stop only to put into motion again with a new blow of the whistle - I have a longtime rancor for whistling sounds so that might have been a little too important. There were gasps and grunts and indistinct hollering, a sound wall of human voices but not one intelligible word. There was dripping dampness - maybe sweat or maybe water from the rink, and the only thing I noticed of the players' faces were their eyes, like a dog's tracking the fly he's going to crush against a window. There wasn't any jersey or color in my dream. There wasn't any beginning nor any end, neither goals nor teams nor game. Just motion and a whirlwind of noises and glimmering parts and pieces.

I think I dreamed a puck's dream.

Strawberry fields, forever

2009-06-15T12:09:00.001-03:00

Last April I visited New York City for the first time and paid my respects to the Strawberry Fields and Imagine mosaic in the Central Park, across the street to the Dakota Building where John Lennon used to live and where he was shot to death too.

I wasn't two years old yet when John Lennon died, so I obviously don't have any memory of him from when he was alive. However he has been, and somehow still is, very important in my life.

The Beatles' music and some of Lennon's own songs, are almost like mystical revelations to me. I live in a pagan and materialistic time when being mystically moved is unusual, but some of that music manages to get me in deep.

Deeper than I ever thought something like that could get.

So I gave John Lennon a serious thought. I worked it out in the back of my mind while I was at any of my jobs, or studying, or biking or strolling around, or simply doing nothing.

Wondering why today, and surely for a long time too, John Lennon is there every time someone focuses on Paul McCartney, the Beatles, or pop music in general. Why people like me, or even younger, are so fond of John Lennon and keep listening to his music and buying posters and T-shirts with his face. I tried to understand it, and I come up with this conclusion: that there are 3 aspects or dimensions of John Lennon.

1. The human dimension. He was born in 1940 and died in 1980. Earned his living as a musician, got married twice, had two sons, loved, hated, wished, militated and tried to raise awareness, and died. He personally met a lot of people, but relatively few compared to all those people he somehow influenced.

2. The artist dimension. I have reasons to believe that the most artistically influential era in Lennon's life was during the Beatles' existence. During the seventies he swayed in political pursuits, withdrew from the public life for a time and didn't produce as much as he had done during the previous decade.

3. The third dimension, the legendary dimension. The John Lennon legend. A huge and inexhaustible interest for all things Lennon, for the twists and turns of his mind, for his music, but also for his concerns, motivations and origins. A gigantic whole that's impossible to cover, what's surprising since it only sources from documents -- John Lennon's been dead for almost three decades now. That same whole that explains that the Liverpool Airport is named John Lennon and it's motto is above us only sky, and the market is big enough to merit the release of a Lennon IPod.

Why so much interest? Why such a legend, unmatched by any of the other Beatles'? In his solo career he wasn't a creative powerhouse and the quality of his work was uneven. His pacifist attempts weren't followed by many and today, nobody would do what he did in order to raise awareness against the war and famine... so I tend to assume it's because they were ineffective. His most emblematic song, Imagine, was a hit when it was released in 1973 but then sled off and it was only after Lennon died and the movie with the same title was released, that the song gained immortality.

I believe there's so much interest because of Yoko Ono, his widow.

"The woman who lead the Beatles to their breakup" was said of her for a long time. And it might as well be true. But it's also true that Yoko authorized, and probably sponsored, the release of every song Lennon ever recorded, to the point that it's unlikely there's any version left officially unreleased. I wasn't aware until recently that there's been a "new" John Lennon album every four or five years, and the owner of those master tapes is Yoko. Yoko granted permission and provided a lot of material for the Anthology documentary, Yoko allows someone or other to publish letters or pictures, Yoko provides funding for the Liverpool airport and proposes it's named after John Lennon, Yoko still lives in the Dakota and gives public talks from time to time, it's Yoko who keeps the interest in John Lennon alive.

Mind you it's no small feat. With an occasional but steady releasing of books, films and lesser known or unfinished songs, over the years the prevailing perception during the sixties that Paul was the group's talented musician and George was the most accomplished performer, with John in a role of the group's leader was contested and overcame. His militancy and political concerns, seen at the time as desperate attempts from somebody starving for attention, now are regarded as thoughtful and courageous. His artistic pursuits and ambitions were seen as afterthoughts, but now are understood as the fruits of a prolific and curious mind. I am sure Yoko Ono was behind it all but never pushing, never imposing. Always shaping, one step ahead everyone else.

I have seen some of Yoko Ono's works in museums and I don't understand them, but I don't doubt for a second she is a true artist and her masterwork is John Lennon.

Philly ain't over til it's over

2009-06-08T12:09:00.004-03:00

Maybe it's because I don't care a thing about Rocky Balboa and I don't think I've ever been through any of his films. Not because chances have been scarce - there are five (five!) installments, I've never felt like and I still don't. But there are two things I'm familiar with: Rocky's motto it ain't over 'til it's over and the iconic image of Stallone's back and risen arm.

Well, turns out that image is from the Philadelphia Museum of Art, prestigious owner of one of the most complete art collections of this great country. Owner of more Rodin's sculptures than any other museum of this great planet, now host of the exhibit "Cézanne and beyond", and a thousand more things, is popular with the throngs just for being Rocky's films setting.

And the effect of Rocky's films in the everyday life of the museum is anything but light. Can you believe that no matter the time of the day you find yourself at the museum's door (but specially after sunset) there are people running upstairs and raising a fist when arriving at the top? As expected philadelphians hate that tacky attitude from the bottom of their souls, and even more the Rocky statue that used to grace the museum's main door but some Director transferred to a less respectable spot in the gardens.

We went on Sunday night and the museum was closed, so we indulged in running upstairs and rising our right fists, and then going downstairs slowly to catch our breath and took pictures of the Rocky Balboa statue. That, as I noticed, is hollow and from somebody way more handsome than Sylvester Stallone.

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You can read a Spanish version of this post here: http://fefoyjulia.blogspot.com/2009/04/filadelfia-no-se-termina-hasta-que-se.html

The cardinality of time

2009-06-01T15:00:00.001-03:00

The body location of time never ceases to amaze me.

The present time, for instance, is located on the left wrist of the person who evokes it.

The past, conversely, is on the right or sometimes on the back. If the past is recent, then the elbow might be folded and close to the chest, while the forefinger might be slightly risen. If the past is not that recent, then the arm and hand might be stretched out, with the palm facing the front. In other words, the past is located like two feet away on the right.

In the cardinality of time, however, the future has no place.

Felonies of unsettling nature

2009-05-25T16:34:00.000-03:00

Turns out that someone with too much free time and a few screws loose has been trying real hard to make us feel unwelcome. The first time it was a banana pressed on the floor in our doorway... we thought it was just an accident. The second time around, a few weeks later, we found a pair of long johns hanging from our doorknob; I took them and threw them outside but two days later someone rang the bell (there are bells only on the front door, the doors inside have knockers) and the long johns were back. I put them in our trash bin and, though I was upset, I chose to ignore the business.

Wrong choice. A few days later I came back home at noon to find lettuce leaves scattered on the doorway. From the distance I thought someone might have dropped their newspaper, but that wasn't the case. They were lettuce leaves, and only on our doorway. That's when I contacted Scott, the building manager, and told him about the whole thing. He assured me that the caretaker would relieve us from the veggie arrangement gracing our doorway, and urged me to call 911 and file a report.

It seemed a bit of an overreaction, so I didn't call.

Scott hung a notice on the front door offering a reward to anyone giving information and a big fine to the culprit, and that seemed to be deterrent enough.

But when a few days later, I found a pepperoni pizza literally smeared on the carpet, again in front of our door, I thought that made it. I called Scott again, who came in diligently and inquired about any suspects I may have.

Now, I've never scratched anyone's car in the parking lot, or stole any piece of clothing from the laundry room or orchestrated mayhem or offense of any sort, so I was really clueless. What kind of enemies have I made, and why? But as this veiled threats business was escalating, I thought it was time I called 911.

So I did. If things had been a bit wacky, my conversation with the forces of order was downright surreal.

- Good morning, 911, I'm xxx, what can I do for you?
- Good morning, I want to file a report on debris on my doorway.
- Excuse me, ma'am, is this an emergency? Is property or life in imminent danger?
- No sir, I want to file a report on the fact that someone has been leaving trash on my doorway, likely as a threat but no, this is not an emergency and there is no imminent danger.
- All right, please call 311, your city council.
- Thank you, I will. Have a nice day.
-You too, goodbye.

- Good morning, 311, my name is yyy, how can I help you?
- Good morning, I want to file a report on debris on my doorway.
- Can you explain me a little more?
- (brief summary of events, including that it was Scott's idea to call)
- You can't report that. I'm sorry, we don't have pepperoni pizza as a criminal report.
- I could guess as much. I'm sure this is a threat though. I feel threatened!
- Ma'am, stay calm. Pizza is harmless. Tell the caretaker to clean it and be mindful of any suspecting attitudes.
- Oookeeeey, thank you anyway.

And well, that's it so far. I agree there wasn't any need to dial 911, but I'm not that sure about pepperoni pizza not being a crime. Because I've felt Pepperoni Jack or Red Baron (3 for 5 bucks) are criminal, but only after you ate them.

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Just in case you're curious, there's a Spanish version of this post here: http://fefoyjulia.blogspot.com/2009/05/felonias-de-naturaleza-inquietante.html

Cross my mind

2009-05-18T15:59:00.004-03:00

Cross my mind, I love that expression! It makes me think of highways coming in and out my head.
Charlotte (Winona Ryder), The last word, 2008.

Welcome to crossings of my mind, my blog in English. Here you'll find some ramblings, some rants and some anecdotes but mostly, English versions of my posts in Fefo y Julia and other blogs I've written in the past but don't exist anymore.

I don't promise to be always truthful or always fictional, to restrain myself to only frivolities or heavyweight subjects, to be punctual as death or reliable as a weather vine, but I promise to try my best to always give you some food for thought, or at least, put a smile on that beautiful face of yours.

Enjoy.