Anoche mientras los vientos del huracan Dean se empezaban a sentir en Felipe Carrillo Puerto, Quintana Roo, debio sentirse una espera como un escalofrio prolongado. Sabiendo que se acercaba Godzilla despues de pisotear Jamaica y en el Caribe. Mientras dibujaban equis y cruces con cinta adhesiva sobre los cristales de las ventanas a forma de iconografia religiosa que pueda proteger. Entre tanto la familia guardaba la ropa en bolsas negras de basura y elegia con desapego forzado lo mas valioso para ser rescatado. Cuando ya tarde reforzaban el techo de lamina con clavos. Despues de que te los vecinos te han rechazado dentro de su casa de material porque son ya muchos y la choza que habitas se empieza a tambalear. Corriendo por los pasillos del super empujando para hacerse de latas con comida y botellas de agua. Porque muchos no piensan dejar sus hogares por un albergue. No; sabiendo que hay otros monstruos, a la puerta, listos para saquear sus pertenencias.
Un hilito de frio por la espalda.
Tuesday, 21 August 2007
Hurricanes
http://environment.independent.co.uk/climate_change/article2881385.ece
The Big Question: Are there more hurricanes, and are they the result of global warming?
By Michael Mccarthy, Environment Editor
Published: 21 August 2007
Why are we asking this now?
Because hurricanes like the one which has careered across the Caribbean and was last night striking Mexico are only formed when the surface temperature of the ocean exceeds a specific point, which is 26C.
As the oceans warm globally with climate change, much larger areas of water will exceed the threshold, and more energy will be available to power a given storm. On the face of it, therefore, the connection might seem a reasonable, even a natural one.
So is it happening already?
Some scientists have put forward fairly dramatic evidence that it may be, and this has been seized on by the environmental community as another piece of the global warming jigsaw, to impress on governments the need to act to cut back on the carbon emissions causing the climate to heat up. But other scientists resolutely dispute the proposition, and say it cannot be proved.
What is the dramatic evidence?
It came in two peer-reviewed scientific papers published within a short time of each other in the summer of 2005. They kicked off the whole hurricane-global warming argument. In fact, they caused a sensation. The first, in the journal Nature, was by Kerry Emanuel of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, one of the world's leading hurricane researchers. Dr Emmanuel devised a new way of measuring hurricane intensity which he called the power dissipation index, and he said he could detect an increase in this which could be related to increases in sea surface temperatures over recent decades.
The second paper was by Greg Holland of the National Centre for Atmospheric Research in Boulder, Colorado, and Peter Webster of the Georgia Institute of Technology in Atlanta (published in Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society). Holland and Webster said they had discovered a rise in the number of Atlantic hurricanes that tracked the increase in sea surface temperature related to climate change over the last century, and taking the conventional measure of hurricane strength, the Saffir-Simpson scale, they said that the number of storms that were reaching the top categories of 4 and 5 had doubled in recent decades.
And these papers caused a sensation?
They sure did. A worldwide one.
Not least because they were published in 2005, in the middle of the worst season of Atlantic hurricanes on record, which culminated in the disaster of Hurricane Katrina which hammered New Orleans so terribly in August. The 2005 season included a record 26 named storms, of which 13 grew big enough to be classified as hurricanes (so many that for the first time since 1953, when scientists started give tropical Atlantic storms names, letters of the Greek alphabet had to be used, as meteorologists had run through the original list of 21 alphabetically-ordered names. The final 2005 tropical storm was christened Epsilon.) For the environmental community the two papers were yet another devastating indictment of the lack of action on climate change, especially by the US government of George W Bush.
So is the connection proved?
Not at all. It is hotly disputed. The difficulty lies in how we use and interpret the database of records of previous storms. Before the late-Sixties and early-Seventies, there was no global satellite coverage and measurement of tropical cyclones (which is the generic term for circular tropical storms - they're hurricanes in the Atlantic, typhoons in the west Pacific and cyclones in the Indian Ocean). So the strength of some early recorded storms may have been misinterpreted - they may actually have been much stronger than we think, and thus a general increase in intensity may be an illusion. Some storms may well have not been observed at all.
Furthermore, an increase may be part of a natural cycle, rather than being caused by human activities. The leading proponent of the no-link theory, Christopher Landsea, a senior American hurricane researcher and forecaster based at the National Hurricane Centre in Miami, has published research contending that the historical hurricane database simply cannot support the claims made by Emanuel, and by Holland and Webster, in their respective papers.
Has the argument become politicised?
'Fraid so. For example, the Bush administration put forward Landsea to assert that there was no connection between Hurricane Katrina and climate change, and he is often attacked by environmentalists. But he is a serious and respected scientist and he is by no means alone in his concern that the record does not show an increase in hurricane power and strength.
One of Britain's leading experts on tropical cyclones, Julian Heming of the UK Met Office, says: "I am of the view that this issue of the historical database is a significant one, and I think we need to be cautious about deriving too many definitive conclusion from the historical records."
Is there no consensus?
Well, there is much more of a consensus between scientists about what is likely to happen in future, than about what has happened in the past or what is happening now. The supercomputer models used for climate change prediction tend to show an increase in future hurricane wind speed and rainfall if the climate continues to warm (though not in hurricane frequency). This is not generally disputed. However, it is a smaller increase than that which the two papers from 2005 claim to have detected already.
Where is the argument now?
We can give you chapter and verse on that. Last November, the World Meteorological Organisation held an International Workshop on Tropical Cyclones in Costa Rica, and at its conclusion, it issued a one-page document entitled "Summary Statement on Tropical Cyclones and Climate Change". Its first paragraph states: "Though there is evidence both for and against the existence of a detectable anthropogenic signal [signs of a human cause such as man-made global warming] in the tropical cyclone climate record to date, no firm conclusion can be made on this point."
So the jury's out?
Not quite. The fourth assessment report of the UN's Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, published in February this year, gives a table showing recent climatic trends. It suggests that intense tropical cyclone activity has probably increased in some regions since 1970, and under the heading "Likelihood of a human contribution to observed trend" it observes succinctly: "More likely than not."
So is climate change to blame?
Yes...
* The historical database shows a definite increase in frequency and intensity (one view)
* Supercomputer climate models unanimously predict that climate change will make hurricanes worse
* Warmer oceans contain more energy for storms
No...
* The historical database cannot be trusted to prove an increase in frequency and intensity (the other view)
* Any increase may be part of a natural cycle
* Even in a warming world, various climatic mechanisms may act to reduce increases
The Big Question: Are there more hurricanes, and are they the result of global warming?
By Michael Mccarthy, Environment Editor
Published: 21 August 2007
Why are we asking this now?
Because hurricanes like the one which has careered across the Caribbean and was last night striking Mexico are only formed when the surface temperature of the ocean exceeds a specific point, which is 26C.
As the oceans warm globally with climate change, much larger areas of water will exceed the threshold, and more energy will be available to power a given storm. On the face of it, therefore, the connection might seem a reasonable, even a natural one.
So is it happening already?
Some scientists have put forward fairly dramatic evidence that it may be, and this has been seized on by the environmental community as another piece of the global warming jigsaw, to impress on governments the need to act to cut back on the carbon emissions causing the climate to heat up. But other scientists resolutely dispute the proposition, and say it cannot be proved.
What is the dramatic evidence?
It came in two peer-reviewed scientific papers published within a short time of each other in the summer of 2005. They kicked off the whole hurricane-global warming argument. In fact, they caused a sensation. The first, in the journal Nature, was by Kerry Emanuel of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, one of the world's leading hurricane researchers. Dr Emmanuel devised a new way of measuring hurricane intensity which he called the power dissipation index, and he said he could detect an increase in this which could be related to increases in sea surface temperatures over recent decades.
The second paper was by Greg Holland of the National Centre for Atmospheric Research in Boulder, Colorado, and Peter Webster of the Georgia Institute of Technology in Atlanta (published in Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society). Holland and Webster said they had discovered a rise in the number of Atlantic hurricanes that tracked the increase in sea surface temperature related to climate change over the last century, and taking the conventional measure of hurricane strength, the Saffir-Simpson scale, they said that the number of storms that were reaching the top categories of 4 and 5 had doubled in recent decades.
And these papers caused a sensation?
They sure did. A worldwide one.
Not least because they were published in 2005, in the middle of the worst season of Atlantic hurricanes on record, which culminated in the disaster of Hurricane Katrina which hammered New Orleans so terribly in August. The 2005 season included a record 26 named storms, of which 13 grew big enough to be classified as hurricanes (so many that for the first time since 1953, when scientists started give tropical Atlantic storms names, letters of the Greek alphabet had to be used, as meteorologists had run through the original list of 21 alphabetically-ordered names. The final 2005 tropical storm was christened Epsilon.) For the environmental community the two papers were yet another devastating indictment of the lack of action on climate change, especially by the US government of George W Bush.
So is the connection proved?
Not at all. It is hotly disputed. The difficulty lies in how we use and interpret the database of records of previous storms. Before the late-Sixties and early-Seventies, there was no global satellite coverage and measurement of tropical cyclones (which is the generic term for circular tropical storms - they're hurricanes in the Atlantic, typhoons in the west Pacific and cyclones in the Indian Ocean). So the strength of some early recorded storms may have been misinterpreted - they may actually have been much stronger than we think, and thus a general increase in intensity may be an illusion. Some storms may well have not been observed at all.
Furthermore, an increase may be part of a natural cycle, rather than being caused by human activities. The leading proponent of the no-link theory, Christopher Landsea, a senior American hurricane researcher and forecaster based at the National Hurricane Centre in Miami, has published research contending that the historical hurricane database simply cannot support the claims made by Emanuel, and by Holland and Webster, in their respective papers.
Has the argument become politicised?
'Fraid so. For example, the Bush administration put forward Landsea to assert that there was no connection between Hurricane Katrina and climate change, and he is often attacked by environmentalists. But he is a serious and respected scientist and he is by no means alone in his concern that the record does not show an increase in hurricane power and strength.
One of Britain's leading experts on tropical cyclones, Julian Heming of the UK Met Office, says: "I am of the view that this issue of the historical database is a significant one, and I think we need to be cautious about deriving too many definitive conclusion from the historical records."
Is there no consensus?
Well, there is much more of a consensus between scientists about what is likely to happen in future, than about what has happened in the past or what is happening now. The supercomputer models used for climate change prediction tend to show an increase in future hurricane wind speed and rainfall if the climate continues to warm (though not in hurricane frequency). This is not generally disputed. However, it is a smaller increase than that which the two papers from 2005 claim to have detected already.
Where is the argument now?
We can give you chapter and verse on that. Last November, the World Meteorological Organisation held an International Workshop on Tropical Cyclones in Costa Rica, and at its conclusion, it issued a one-page document entitled "Summary Statement on Tropical Cyclones and Climate Change". Its first paragraph states: "Though there is evidence both for and against the existence of a detectable anthropogenic signal [signs of a human cause such as man-made global warming] in the tropical cyclone climate record to date, no firm conclusion can be made on this point."
So the jury's out?
Not quite. The fourth assessment report of the UN's Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, published in February this year, gives a table showing recent climatic trends. It suggests that intense tropical cyclone activity has probably increased in some regions since 1970, and under the heading "Likelihood of a human contribution to observed trend" it observes succinctly: "More likely than not."
So is climate change to blame?
Yes...
* The historical database shows a definite increase in frequency and intensity (one view)
* Supercomputer climate models unanimously predict that climate change will make hurricanes worse
* Warmer oceans contain more energy for storms
No...
* The historical database cannot be trusted to prove an increase in frequency and intensity (the other view)
* Any increase may be part of a natural cycle
* Even in a warming world, various climatic mechanisms may act to reduce increases
Monday, 20 August 2007
Y Te Crees En Lo Cierto
Nada más molesto que mientras esperas el camión , mientras comes tu sandwich, mientras hojeas el periódico y quieres ser dejado en paz algún individuo llegue a querer imponer sus ideas. Como si fueras un indefenso mequetrefe incapaz de pensar y portaras un letrero pidiendo ayuda. Los temas pueden ser de lo más variados, partiendo de la religión, política, futbol, calentamiento global o lo que sea. ¿Acaso fui yo el que se acerco a tí a que me iluminaras y me vendieras uno de esos libritos olorosos para adoctrinarme? No, verdad. Pero lo que yo piense no te importa ni las opiniones que te pueda debatir, por más brillantes que sean. Ni siquiera escuchas. Piensas que tus ideales son los únicos verdaderos y al expresarlos y proyectarlos buscas confirmar tu ego y tu valía. Buscas ser políticamente correcto con quien no coincida contigo al usar expresiones como respeto tu opinion pero…, lo que dices es interesante pero…
que solamente son formas de ser condecendiente porque en el fondo sigues queriendo creer y convencer.
Las ideologías lejos de ayudar han enredado todo en un hilado a punto de asfixiarnos, pero no me creas, yo no busco convencerte de nada. De hecho, sinceramente, no me importa lo que tu pienses, con tal de que no vengas a querer hacer fanfarrias de tu avanzado conocimiento o iluminación. En una peda puede ser insufrible el necio que se empeñe en forzar un tema entre un grupo de parroquianos que lo único que desean es intoxicarse en paz. Habrá quien considere necesario defenderse en cada ocasión de los metiches-ideológicos-parasitosos, delimitar su postura desde el flanco verdadero y digno de su valiosísimo punto de vista y lo que se logra es provocar, hacer arder la llama, que más da lo que pienses tú o lo que piense yo, son únicamente ideas, utopías.
que solamente son formas de ser condecendiente porque en el fondo sigues queriendo creer y convencer.
Las ideologías lejos de ayudar han enredado todo en un hilado a punto de asfixiarnos, pero no me creas, yo no busco convencerte de nada. De hecho, sinceramente, no me importa lo que tu pienses, con tal de que no vengas a querer hacer fanfarrias de tu avanzado conocimiento o iluminación. En una peda puede ser insufrible el necio que se empeñe en forzar un tema entre un grupo de parroquianos que lo único que desean es intoxicarse en paz. Habrá quien considere necesario defenderse en cada ocasión de los metiches-ideológicos-parasitosos, delimitar su postura desde el flanco verdadero y digno de su valiosísimo punto de vista y lo que se logra es provocar, hacer arder la llama, que más da lo que pienses tú o lo que piense yo, son únicamente ideas, utopías.
Sunday, 19 August 2007
Sobre Groucho Marx
De la jornada virtual del domingo 19 de agosto del 2007
“Jamás pertenecería a un club que admitiese de socio a alguien como yo”, decía Groucho el hombre que convirtió a Marx en un apellido chistoso
El cómico fue elegido uno de los 50 actores más influyentes de la historia
DPA
Los Angeles, agosto 18. “Perdonen que no me levante”, fue lo que quiso que pusieran en su tumba. No le hicieron caso, pero para Groucho Marx una frase genial, irónica, sarcástica, nunca estaba de más. Eso y muchas otras líneas de humor inteligente engrandecieron su leyenda. Mañana se cumplen 30 años de su muerte.
Su inmenso talento lo convirtió casi en un personaje de dibujos animados, por su falso bigote y sus enormes cejas, su caminar desgarbado y sus gestos exagerados, imagen característica de la meca del cine junto a las faldas de Marilyn Monroe o el bombín de Charles Chaplin.
Pero detrás de la aparición circense se escondía un genio del humor, un pensador que llegaba mucho mas allá con sus sarcasmos, un talento único como el de Picasso, según dijo Woody Allen de él en alguna ocasión.
Sus célebres frases, que marcaron más de una docena de películas con sus hermanos, siguen siendo citas habituales, y de ser un cómico que rayaba en lo ridículo, se convirtió en un fenómeno de culto para muchos fans de la gran pantalla.
Pese a eso, su muerte, un 19 de agosto de 1977, recibió mucha menos atención de la esperada, ya que tres días antes Elvis Presley había sido la causa de una conmoción nacional por su fallecimiento sorpresivo a los 42 años.
Quedaron pocas lágrimas para Groucho, que sin embargo fue elegido dentro de la lista de los 50 actores más influyentes de la historia por el Instituto Americano de Cine.
Hijo de inmigrantes alemanes judíos, Julios Henry Marx nació en Nueva Cork en 1890, en una familia de cinco hermanos que años más tarde se harían famosos por sus actuaciones cómicas.
Curiosamente Groucho, el tercero de los hermanos, era el introvertido y callado de la familia, el niño que no recibió la atención de los mayores (Harpo y Chico) ni de los dos pequeños, Zeppo y Gummo, por lo que logró desarrollar con los años una personalidad cortante para lograr atención.
Comenzó con vodeviles durante dos décadas hasta que Broadway le abrió las puertas a él y a sus cuatro hermanos en I’ll Say She Is, en 1924. De ahí saltaron al éxito de Cocoanuts y su posterior paso por estudios de cine como la Paramount Pictures y la Metro Goldwyn Meyer que los hicieron verdaderamente famosos en Hollywood.
Groucho lideraba las cintas con personajes de nombres estrambóticos, suplantando a médicos, doctores o directores de hotel, a los que siempre acompañaban Harpo y Chico con su endiablada habilidad para tocar el arpa y el piano, respectivamente.
Títulos como Una noche en la ópera, Un día en la carreras o Sopa de ganso están en los registros de mejores comedias de la historia, con escenas como la aglomeración en el camarote de los hermanos o la persecución en un tren en el lejano oeste al grito de “¡Más madera, es la guerra!”
Y después está el recuerdo de sus frases míticas como: “partiendo de la nada hemos alcanzado las más altas cotas de miseria” o “jamás pertenecería a un club que admitiese de socio a alguien como yo”, que lo encumbraron como gran humorista.
Pese a su éxito en la gran pantalla, Groucho logró más reconocimiento y fama que nunca con su programa de televisión Apueste su vida, pues una gran parte del publico estadunidense desconocía sus películas y su trabajo en el teatro.
Además de todo lo anterior, de Groucho dicen que tenía buenos amigos, que conoció a Charles Chaplin de sus días teatrales, que tenía insomnio y que cuando le daba, llamaba por teléfono a gente para insultarlos. Y mantuvo correspondencia constante con escritores de la talla de T.S. Eliot y Carl Sandburg.
Un personaje admirable, que a pesar de que sus padres apostaron por la escuela de medicina, al escasear los recursos en casa tuvo que acudir al canto. Aunque fue en realidad la improvisación lo que le llevó al estrellato. Habilidad que desarrollo de su amor por los libros.
Dicha pasión inspiró su mítica frase: “Me parece que la televisión es muy educativa. Cada vez que alguien la enciende, yo me voy a otra habitación a leer un buen libro”.
Nunca quiso ser un cómico grotesco usando chistes sexuales y se mantuvo siempre cerca de sus hermanos. Sobrevivió a tres de ellos. Incluyendo al menor, Gummo, que falleció cuatro meses antes que Groucho.
Tuvo tres hijos y estuvo casado tres veces, aunque para una mayoría su única mujer fue la incorruptible Margaret Dumont, su compañera de reparto en infinidad de títulos, la viuda millonaria con la que siempre se explayaba, cigarro en mano y avasallándola con frases fugaces y devastadoras.
Groucho era siempre así.
“Jamás pertenecería a un club que admitiese de socio a alguien como yo”, decía Groucho el hombre que convirtió a Marx en un apellido chistoso
El cómico fue elegido uno de los 50 actores más influyentes de la historia
DPA
Los Angeles, agosto 18. “Perdonen que no me levante”, fue lo que quiso que pusieran en su tumba. No le hicieron caso, pero para Groucho Marx una frase genial, irónica, sarcástica, nunca estaba de más. Eso y muchas otras líneas de humor inteligente engrandecieron su leyenda. Mañana se cumplen 30 años de su muerte.
Su inmenso talento lo convirtió casi en un personaje de dibujos animados, por su falso bigote y sus enormes cejas, su caminar desgarbado y sus gestos exagerados, imagen característica de la meca del cine junto a las faldas de Marilyn Monroe o el bombín de Charles Chaplin.
Pero detrás de la aparición circense se escondía un genio del humor, un pensador que llegaba mucho mas allá con sus sarcasmos, un talento único como el de Picasso, según dijo Woody Allen de él en alguna ocasión.
Sus célebres frases, que marcaron más de una docena de películas con sus hermanos, siguen siendo citas habituales, y de ser un cómico que rayaba en lo ridículo, se convirtió en un fenómeno de culto para muchos fans de la gran pantalla.
Pese a eso, su muerte, un 19 de agosto de 1977, recibió mucha menos atención de la esperada, ya que tres días antes Elvis Presley había sido la causa de una conmoción nacional por su fallecimiento sorpresivo a los 42 años.
Quedaron pocas lágrimas para Groucho, que sin embargo fue elegido dentro de la lista de los 50 actores más influyentes de la historia por el Instituto Americano de Cine.
Hijo de inmigrantes alemanes judíos, Julios Henry Marx nació en Nueva Cork en 1890, en una familia de cinco hermanos que años más tarde se harían famosos por sus actuaciones cómicas.
Curiosamente Groucho, el tercero de los hermanos, era el introvertido y callado de la familia, el niño que no recibió la atención de los mayores (Harpo y Chico) ni de los dos pequeños, Zeppo y Gummo, por lo que logró desarrollar con los años una personalidad cortante para lograr atención.
Comenzó con vodeviles durante dos décadas hasta que Broadway le abrió las puertas a él y a sus cuatro hermanos en I’ll Say She Is, en 1924. De ahí saltaron al éxito de Cocoanuts y su posterior paso por estudios de cine como la Paramount Pictures y la Metro Goldwyn Meyer que los hicieron verdaderamente famosos en Hollywood.
Groucho lideraba las cintas con personajes de nombres estrambóticos, suplantando a médicos, doctores o directores de hotel, a los que siempre acompañaban Harpo y Chico con su endiablada habilidad para tocar el arpa y el piano, respectivamente.
Títulos como Una noche en la ópera, Un día en la carreras o Sopa de ganso están en los registros de mejores comedias de la historia, con escenas como la aglomeración en el camarote de los hermanos o la persecución en un tren en el lejano oeste al grito de “¡Más madera, es la guerra!”
Y después está el recuerdo de sus frases míticas como: “partiendo de la nada hemos alcanzado las más altas cotas de miseria” o “jamás pertenecería a un club que admitiese de socio a alguien como yo”, que lo encumbraron como gran humorista.
Pese a su éxito en la gran pantalla, Groucho logró más reconocimiento y fama que nunca con su programa de televisión Apueste su vida, pues una gran parte del publico estadunidense desconocía sus películas y su trabajo en el teatro.
Además de todo lo anterior, de Groucho dicen que tenía buenos amigos, que conoció a Charles Chaplin de sus días teatrales, que tenía insomnio y que cuando le daba, llamaba por teléfono a gente para insultarlos. Y mantuvo correspondencia constante con escritores de la talla de T.S. Eliot y Carl Sandburg.
Un personaje admirable, que a pesar de que sus padres apostaron por la escuela de medicina, al escasear los recursos en casa tuvo que acudir al canto. Aunque fue en realidad la improvisación lo que le llevó al estrellato. Habilidad que desarrollo de su amor por los libros.
Dicha pasión inspiró su mítica frase: “Me parece que la televisión es muy educativa. Cada vez que alguien la enciende, yo me voy a otra habitación a leer un buen libro”.
Nunca quiso ser un cómico grotesco usando chistes sexuales y se mantuvo siempre cerca de sus hermanos. Sobrevivió a tres de ellos. Incluyendo al menor, Gummo, que falleció cuatro meses antes que Groucho.
Tuvo tres hijos y estuvo casado tres veces, aunque para una mayoría su única mujer fue la incorruptible Margaret Dumont, su compañera de reparto en infinidad de títulos, la viuda millonaria con la que siempre se explayaba, cigarro en mano y avasallándola con frases fugaces y devastadoras.
Groucho era siempre así.
Richard Ashcroft
The Verve
Space And Time
There ain't no space and timeTo keep our love aliveWe have existence and it's all we shareThere ain't no real truthThere ain't no real liesKeep on pushin' 'cause I know it's thereOh, can you just tell meIt's all right (It's all right)Let me sleep tonightOh, can you comfort meTonight (It's all right)Make it all seem fineI just can't make it aloneOh, no, noI just can't make it aloneOh, no, noThere'll be no lullabiesThere'll be no tears criedWe feel numb 'cause we don't seeThat if we really careAnd we really lovedThink of all the joy we'd feelOh, can you just tell meIt's all right (It's all right)Let me sleep tonightOh, can you comfort meTonight (It's all right)Make it all seem fineI just can't make it aloneOh, no, noI just can't make it aloneOh, no, noI just can't make it aloneOh, no, noI just can't make it aloneOh, no, noAin't got no lullaby, no, noAin't got no lullaby, oh, noThere is no space and timeOh lordThere is no space and timeOh lordWe have existence and it's all we shareWe have existence and it's all we shareWe have existence and it's all we shareWe have existence and it's all we shareWe have existence and it's all we shareKeep on pushing 'cause I know it's thereKeep on pushing 'cause I know it's thereKeep on pushing 'cause I know it's thereKeep on pushing 'cause I know it's there
The Verve
Space And Time
There ain't no space and timeTo keep our love aliveWe have existence and it's all we shareThere ain't no real truthThere ain't no real liesKeep on pushin' 'cause I know it's thereOh, can you just tell meIt's all right (It's all right)Let me sleep tonightOh, can you comfort meTonight (It's all right)Make it all seem fineI just can't make it aloneOh, no, noI just can't make it aloneOh, no, noThere'll be no lullabiesThere'll be no tears criedWe feel numb 'cause we don't seeThat if we really careAnd we really lovedThink of all the joy we'd feelOh, can you just tell meIt's all right (It's all right)Let me sleep tonightOh, can you comfort meTonight (It's all right)Make it all seem fineI just can't make it aloneOh, no, noI just can't make it aloneOh, no, noI just can't make it aloneOh, no, noI just can't make it aloneOh, no, noAin't got no lullaby, no, noAin't got no lullaby, oh, noThere is no space and timeOh lordThere is no space and timeOh lordWe have existence and it's all we shareWe have existence and it's all we shareWe have existence and it's all we shareWe have existence and it's all we shareWe have existence and it's all we shareKeep on pushing 'cause I know it's thereKeep on pushing 'cause I know it's thereKeep on pushing 'cause I know it's thereKeep on pushing 'cause I know it's there
Friday, 17 August 2007
Dicen de Paul Auster
-Me cuenta David Ruiz
que alguien le dijo
que alguna vez
Paul Auster estaba escribiendo
un cuento sensacional,
se sentía tan satisfecho,
un genio,
en eso,
salio al jardín
y se encontró con su hija
que lo llevó de la mano
para enseñarle
la enorme cagada
que se había hecho apenas
en el jardín.-
Sabias palabras.
Tú como yo, también cagas.
Y con las manos en las rodillas
con el culo al aire
de aguilita
o en la tierra
también te desprendes
un poco de tí mismo
devuelves al origen
tus pretenciones de alto vuelo
y tu ego,
tus deseos y tus miedos.
Y aunque no lo quieras
existe tu foto tomada
por las cctv cámaras
o por algún pinche ocioso
y un día de verano
cuando más seguro te sientas
sera transmitida
a nivel planetario
en los sueños del mundo
para que todos la reconozcan;
tu cagada.
que alguien le dijo
que alguna vez
Paul Auster estaba escribiendo
un cuento sensacional,
se sentía tan satisfecho,
un genio,
en eso,
salio al jardín
y se encontró con su hija
que lo llevó de la mano
para enseñarle
la enorme cagada
que se había hecho apenas
en el jardín.-
Sabias palabras.
Tú como yo, también cagas.
Y con las manos en las rodillas
con el culo al aire
de aguilita
o en la tierra
también te desprendes
un poco de tí mismo
devuelves al origen
tus pretenciones de alto vuelo
y tu ego,
tus deseos y tus miedos.
Y aunque no lo quieras
existe tu foto tomada
por las cctv cámaras
o por algún pinche ocioso
y un día de verano
cuando más seguro te sientas
sera transmitida
a nivel planetario
en los sueños del mundo
para que todos la reconozcan;
tu cagada.
Thursday, 26 July 2007
Third World Journalist
I am walking on the roof of a hotel. I walk slowly on the roof of the hotel, I want to take photos of the offices of a newspaper that has been seized by the government. Exactly opposite are the offices and printing works of the 'Despertar Oaxaqueño' newspaper, the only publication which criticises the government which a few weeks ago sent in its heavies to occupy the installations. All along Libres street there are cars and unmarked police vans closing off any roads. Official assassins dressed in civvies, everyone knows who they are, are sat in the doorways of the newspaper and stood on street corners. Fellow journalists are still trapped inside the building, nobody is allowed to go in or out. It's not as though I am going to all this trouble of taking the photos to help my colleagues, as if, I'm not bothered about them, it was me who betrayed them. But it hasn't always been like this. There once was a time, now long gone, when I was interested in the truth, interested in winning a Pulitzer, being a respectable figure and all that bollocks that you dream about when you believe that life is perfect.
I want to take the photos because this thirst for justice is dehydrating me, because that bastard governor, Ulises Ruiz, deceived me just like he did everyone else in this bloody city. Crouching down I try to get closer to the edge of the wide roof, I adjust my 10 mega pixel Canon EOS 400D, I only have a few seconds to take the photos, if I'm lucky. The afternoon is hot, at this hour the sun is brightly reflected in the orange walls of Oaxaca, below the voices of the assassins can be heard, shouting and swearing, if they discover me this will be my last day. The repression came with the electoral fraud and with that twat with a moustache, Uribe coming to power. From that day on opponents are oppressed, for two months now there have been unmarked police vans full of agents dressed as civilians that hunt journalists, teachers, students or anyone who they think looks suspicious, dragging them into the truck and beating, torturing and disappearing them; they are known as 'the convoys of death'.
Now lying down on the edge of the roof I get up carefully although with difficulty due to my bulging stomach. I lift my head slightly so that my eyes can look round. Three assassins sat on some chairs and fizzy drinks crates, drinking Corona and playing cards. I will have to zoom in as much as possible in order to capture their faces, I recognise them, they are the ringleaders, the top dog of the ringleaders was a soldier and now does the dirtiest jobs, he is the darkest side of the police, if that were at all possible. The others have faces like hyenas, I make sure that I have silenced the shutter and that the flash is turned off, I take the lens cap off and thanks to a complicated abdominal move I lift my torso to take one photo, two photos, the faces are very clear except for one of the killers who has his back to me, but I've got the leader. One of them moves his face and I drop down on my back, noting at that moment my raggedy breathing. I lift myself up again, little by little, trying to listen in, they carry on talking amongst themselves, nobody turns to where I am, I put the lens cap on again and drag myself away from the edge of the roof, congratulating myself on the photos I've managed to take, I will send them to a newspaper in Mexico City and to foreign newspapers to see if they will finally realise what is going on here. I reach the door and go downstairs to the laundry room of the hotel, the workers there barely acknowledge me, I avoid the lobby even though there are no guests, how could there be with that battalion of scum stationed on the other side of the street. I hurry towards the back entrance and try to leave heading north up Constitucion street but they are already waiting for me. It's useless, they've caught me.
As soon as I poke my head out of the emergency exit I am pistol whipped. I immediately fall face forward feeling a sudden heat in my face and watching red blood dripping on the pavement. My camera goes flying, then they kick me in the ribs, back, face. I don't know how long this can last for, I can't feel my body and they drag me along by my arms, spitting on me and telling me that now I really am fucked. They throw me in the back of an unmarked police van. My head bounces off the metal floor. I don't know if it is the beating or if it is hellishly hot inside this metal box without windows. Someone tries to touch me and I curl up like a slug that has been covered in salt. This is how I should end, beaten and tortured by assassins of the government, what more did someone like me deserve. I open one eye because the other one won't respond, it feels swollen and sore, I see that there are more people with me in this cage. I try to stand up but someone says, "Best stay there, son". Outside there are laughs. A door is shut, someone starts the engine and someone else shouts, "now we're going to give you your freedom of speech you fuckers" whilst the van with us inside drives off.
I drag myself to one of the sides, towards a metal bar that is a seat. Next to me there is an ancient indigenous woman, opposite there are some kids that can't be more than 23, university students I reckon and a burly man of about fifty who is bleeding heavily. The van is going so fucking fast that we have to hang on to the steel bar so that we don't bounce off the metal walls, we can hear people outside, we're still in the city. Almost certainly they will take us directly to a prison if we are lucky or to the outskirts to one of the houses that they have in the middle of nowhere where they will torture us so that we give them names, information, whatever they want us to tell them.
We come to what seems to be a straight, flat road and I think that we are on the PanAmerican highway on the way out of the city. The university students cry to themselves imagining what will happen to them, the man is unconscious, only his breath can be heard, struggling in and out trying to get past the scabs of blood. The old woman next to me is the oldest woman that I have ever seen. As wrinkled as an elephant, with skin hanging from her arms and strong, thin legs with varicose veins popping out. She hardly blinks at all, I attribute this to the fact that being so old, a terrible death must seem like just another way to die for her.
The old woman slowly takes out a seashell from her sweater, she puts it to her ear and says to me, or so I believe because she doesn't look at me, she just utters "you cannot write your book because you are constipated". The situation is so extreme that such an absurd phrase does not seem so odd to me and I answer, "yes, it's been a few weeks since I have gone to the toilet", I reckon this is because of my erratic diet of fast food and alcohol. My stomach has grown, I noticed it when I tried to put on my Levis the other day and I couldn't do up the top button, I thought I should give the beer a miss and start drinking more mezcal instead. The old woman carries on talking as though she were receiving a transmission through the seashell which she keeps glued to her enormous wrinkly left ear, "when you were a small boy, they told you that you were worthless but they didn't hit you". "And you think that it is their fault, you feel perfect, and you believe that the shitty fucking life you lead is your parents' and everyone else's fault" she added. "Now, you listen to me," I manage to blurt out before she turns to face me and shows me the most fierce and compassionate eyes I have ever seen; I am speechless. There is nothing that I could reproach this old woman for, my life has already turned to shite, she is right.
Just then we are all thrown forward by a sudden braking. The drivers' doors open and shouting they open the metal bolt on the back door where we are and roughly drag us out threatening us with assault rifles, only the old woman remains in the van, watching me as I am dragged out by my feet. They push us into a darkened room, the windows are covered up with tabloid newspapers depicting horrific crime and accident scenes and the policemen smile at us and say to us as they are leaving the room, "we'll be right back for you lot".
We are hunched up in the corners of the room, the two kids in one corner, freely shedding tears, I'm in another corner, holding on to my head and trying to block my ears so I can't hear the screams of pain coming from outside. Then at the moment we hear the policemen shouting and running, the doors of the police van opening and closing, the engine revving up and then, nothing. For ten minutes we are frozen with panic until I get up and put my ear against the door; there is not a sound. I push the door which is obviously barred, the kids get up thinking the same as me. We look at each other and without saying a word we begin to kick the door, stepping backwards and kicking with all our might, all three of us are burning up with heat, anger, hate and desperation to get out. One of the hinges gives way and through the bottom corner of the door we can lean out and we can see no trace of any of the supposedly undercover cops, just a pool of blood on the earth floor and the body of a man hanging from a hook. We pull at the door until the gap is bigger and we can get out. We are in a tumbledown house, not even a tree nearby; they have all been chopped down. An old rusty car, .45 and 9mm squad cartridges lying on the red sand and the sound of cars in the distance, the main road can't be far away. The university students start running towards the supposed main road. Nothing can be seen in any direction, I run round to the back of the house, I have a terrible pain in my torso; I think they have broken my rib. No matter how far I walk when I turn to look back I can still see the house and at any moment I expect to see the police van appear and the assassins coming to get us after seeing that we have escaped. All around is flat so even if I were miles away they could still pick me out with their binoculars. I can see dust rising in the distance getting closer to where the house is whilst I force myself to keep going in the opposite direction. In the distance I hear gunshots and then I throw myself down into some bushes because I can't go one step further. The only sounds I can hear are my breath, the crickets and the mosquitoes that are eating me alive. I pray; not for salvation but for the people that I betrayed and lied to in my life and for those that could care about me at this moment. I couldn't even publish the photos that could tell a bit of the truth. I'm rotting in the middle of nowhere. As soon as dawn starts breaking I realise that I have to keep going, they will probably hunt me down with their AR-15 rifles. I walk and walk with no village in sight, not even a road, there are no animals, just cacti, the sun burning from high in the sky, I try to lift my face up and at that moment I think I see a man with a hat and I lose consciousness.
The man doesn't speak Spanish, only the indigenous language Mixe, but he gives me water and understands that I am running from something, everyone knows that this is only the beginning. I walk in the straight line that the man points out with his arm and two days later I arrive at a village a few miles from Oaxaca city. In the village they let me make a call and ask for money from a friend in Mexico City. As soon as the money that my mate has wired me arrives I buy a bus ticket and get out of there.
For the past two years I have been working for a newspaper in Mexico City. From time to time they publish my photos, always for the tabloid crime pages, they have not approved anything I have written about what is happening in Oaxaca, it's not in line with their policy. Instead it's about knowing when and where accidents happen and getting there as quickly as possible to capture the images, the gorier the better. It's been a while since I've felt close to the place, every day I read up on what is happening there, the disappeared and the dead. I haven't wanted to get emotionally involved, trying to ignore the anger and bitterness. I haven't wanted to return, I haven't wanted to let it in, until today when in the post I received a photo of the old woman.
Tuesday, 2 May 2006
Cero inspiración
Amoratado de golpes constantes
que me procura el infame teclado
sangrando antipoesía, no salvado
desierto de belleza y de tu arte.
De pronto, un día cualquiera, las
cosas se vuelven a acomodar.
En los resquicios de uno mismo va
entrando el humo del cigarro que
limpia, la cafeína que purga lo
que no quisieramos se quedara. Las
formas toman de nuevo belleza,
se abren caminos, cuando ya no
creías en nada, todo cree en tí.
No me molestarían las palabras
empujándose para ser escritas
de tanto sol quedaran bien marchitas
en la cruel página en blanco tatuadas
pero ni la música ni la gente
me entretienen, estoy en un perverso
estado de apatía inclemente
aún así , como un boxeador necio
vuelta a pelear de noche y madrugada
quedando en el papel, café con nada.
que me procura el infame teclado
sangrando antipoesía, no salvado
desierto de belleza y de tu arte.
De pronto, un día cualquiera, las
cosas se vuelven a acomodar.
En los resquicios de uno mismo va
entrando el humo del cigarro que
limpia, la cafeína que purga lo
que no quisieramos se quedara. Las
formas toman de nuevo belleza,
se abren caminos, cuando ya no
creías en nada, todo cree en tí.
No me molestarían las palabras
empujándose para ser escritas
de tanto sol quedaran bien marchitas
en la cruel página en blanco tatuadas
pero ni la música ni la gente
me entretienen, estoy en un perverso
estado de apatía inclemente
aún así , como un boxeador necio
vuelta a pelear de noche y madrugada
quedando en el papel, café con nada.
Catorce niños
Catorce niños jugaban saltando
seguidos por las miradas de madres
que no confían en dejarlos libres
y llegaron unas naves volando
sobre los infantes se colocaron
y a trece de ellos volvieron sales
el que quedó solito aún vive
aunque los rayos lo dejaron blando
seguidos por las miradas de madres
que no confían en dejarlos libres
y llegaron unas naves volando
sobre los infantes se colocaron
y a trece de ellos volvieron sales
el que quedó solito aún vive
aunque los rayos lo dejaron blando
Wednesday, 13 April 2005
Un canario en una mina
Esperamos de nosotros mismos mucho. Igualmente los que nos rodean. Deseamos que cambie el clima, que se pasen las horas, que sea ya la salida. En ese aguardar por otra cosa no estamos viviendo lo que el momento nos presenta. Cierto, no todas las situaciones son agradables, quisieramos la vida fuera un largo momento feliz intermitente, pero los momentos difíciles son inevitables. Es parte de la vida, supongo, vivir unos y los otros. Quedarse con lo que venga. La tendencia es salir corriendo y esconder la mirada con las manos. Evadirse. Al final todo es impermanente, todo pasa, lo que nos agrada y lo que no. Aferrarnos a una situación es lo que nos cansa. Cuando te agarras de algo, te congelas, te quedas estancado. Todo sigue cambiando y tú en tu museo personal. Espero a que la rueda gire. Espero sin reloj en mano, dejando que lo que hace falta llegue, no empujando las situaciones, a veces arriba, a veces abajo.
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