Rabbit Drinks Very Little Water

Two tales Schweblin

Desperate Housewives

stop in the middle of the road Happiness has believed to see on the horizon, the faint reflection of the taillight auto. Now in the darkness closed the field, only distinguished the moon and her wedding dress. Sitting on a rock beside the bathroom door concludes that there should be taken so long. Tulle clear from a few grains of rice. Just can guess the landscape: the countryside, the route and the bathroom.
want to mourn, but still can not. Corrects the folds of her dress, nails look, and see, every so often, the route he is gone. Then something happens:
"Not again," says one woman. Happiness
gets scared and cries. For a second thought be faced with a ghost. Attempted to control, but the body does not stop trembling. Look at the woman, nothing seems to startle, is old and bitter expression, but keeps the wrinkles big blue eyes and perfect lips dimensions.
"The route is a shit," she says. Out of his pocket a cigarette, lights it and takes it to his mouth sucks. The worst ...
A white light appears on the route, passing lights, and vanishes with its reddish hue.
- So what? Will you wait? - she says.
She looks at the side of the route by which, to return her husband would receive the car and not encouraged to respond.
"Nene" says the woman, and offers his hand.
She spreads his doubt and greet. Nene movements are firm and strong.
"Look," said Nene, sits next to Happiness "I will give you the test short-PISA just started smoking, emphasizing the words "tired of waiting and leave you. That's it. It seems that hope is something that can not tolerate. Then they cry and wait ... And wait ... And above all, for a long time: cry, cry and cry even more.
Although he tries, fails to understand happiness. It is sad, and when most needed fraternal support, when only another woman could understand what it feels like after being abandoned alongside a road bath, she just has that old hostility that before he spoke and now yells.
- And they keep crying and crying every minute, every hour of every damn night! Happiness
deep breath, his eyes fill with tears.
And mourn and mourn goal ... And I tell you something: this is over. I'm tired, tired of listening to so many stupid miserable. And one more thing I say ... "is interrupted, seems to doubt and question," What did you say your name?
She means happy, but swallows crying, hiccuping.
"Hello ... Is your name ...?
-Fe, li ... - is controlled. It does not work, but solves the phrase "capacity.
"No, no, no. Do not even think. At least endure anything more than the others.
Happiness begins to mourn.
-No. I will not longer bear it. I can not. Happiness! She
force noisy breathing and keeps crying, but then the situation is unsustainable and it all begins again.
I can not believe that he ... - respiratory
I have ... Nene is incorporated, looks happy with contempt and away furiously in field. She tries to restrain himself, but finally download:
- Inconsiderate! - Yells, but then gets up and catches up, Wait ... Do not go, you understand ...
ignoring Nene walks. "Wait
Happiness returns to mourn. Nene
stops.
-Shut up, "he says calibrated Shut! Then
Happiness stop mourn and Nene to it in the darkness of the field.
-Shut up and listen.
She swallows. It focuses on not mourn.
"Well, what? Do you feel? - Look to the field. Happiness
imitates try to concentrate.
-cries too, now we must wait until you get used to hearing. Happiness
makes an effort, twisting his head slightly. Nene waiting impatiently for her to finally understand.
-cry ... - said Happiness, softly, almost in shame.
"Yes. Cry. Yes, cry! Cry the whole damn night! Do not see me face? When I sleep? Never! All I do is hear it every damn night. And I will not soportarlo más, ¿se entiende?
       Felicidad la mira asustada. En el campo, voces y llantos de mujeres quejumbrosas repiten a gritos los nombres de sus maridos.
       -¿Y a todas las dejan?
       -¡Y todas lloran!- dice Nené.
       Entonces gritan:
       -¡Psicótica!
- Unhappy, insensitive!
And other voices are added:
- Let us mourn, hysterical! Nene
faces everywhere. Shout to the field:
- What about me ...? How about that for more than forty years we are here, also abandoned, and we need to hear your stupid Penitas every damn night? Huh? What?
- Take a painkiller! Loca! Happiness looks
Nene and understand how much greater the sadness of this woman compared to yours. Nene bites her lip and refused. At the field yelling are increasingly violent.
- Come, turrita!; Come and give your face!
"Come, give. To see how hard you this new friend ...
- Where are you old! Talk unhappy!
- When you were here crying because we still went out with them miserable!
Some voices screaming to stop laughing. Nene
dropped and feel resigned.
- Leave her alone! - Said Happiness. Nene is coming and hugs as she hugs a girl.
"There ... That fear ... - said one of the voices, so now you have classmate ..." I'm not
classmate anyone, "says Bliss, just trying to help ...
" Oh ... Just trying to help ...
- Do you know what was left on the road?
- Why it's a skinny walrus!
"No, because ... they left - they laugh" ... because while she tried on her wedding dress, we already went to bed with her hubby ... - laugh again.
heard voices getting closer. It's a crying where it is difficult to separate the cry of that laugh.
-¡Porqué no se callan, cotorras!- grita Nené.
       -¡Ya te vamos a agarrar, turra!
       Felicidad siente bajo los pies el temblor de un campo por el que avanzan cientos de mujeres desesperadas. Nené comienza a retroceder hacia la ruta. Felicidad la sigue.
       -¿Cuántas son…?- pregunta.
       -Muchas- dice Nené- demasiadas.
       Pero Felicidad no puede escucharla, los insultos son tantos y están ya tan cerca que es inútil responder o tratar de llegar a un acuerdo.
       -¿Qué hacemos?- insiste Felicidad.
       Entonces Nené adivina en ella los signos contenidos del llanto.
       -No se te ocurra llorar- le dice.
       Increasingly rapid retreat. Are almost along the route. In the distance, a white dot grows as a new ray of hope. Happiness think now, for the last time in love. Thinks to herself, not to leave, not leave her.
"If we got shouts for Nene.
- What?
are already near the bathroom. "That
if the car for ...
The buzz followed them, and already appears to be on them. We could not see, but know they are there, a few meters. The car stops in front of the bathroom. Nene returns to Happiness and ordered to advance, and without getting too close, yet hidden in darkness, waiting for the woman to sit her down and force the man to lead. But he is moving down. With the lights by cutting the road has not seen the women and rushed down clutching his crotch. Then the noise increases. The laughter and jokes forget Nene and are intended for him. Stops but it's too late, in his eyes the terror of a rabbit in front of the beasts. Meanwhile, Nene around the car to raise the driver's side, but when you try to open the door meets the woman has put up barriers.
- Open, go! We have to go! - Nene says he struggles while the door.
"If you want to let it down," says Happiness "around them if they want.
From inside the car the woman shouts what they want, where they come from, one question after another. Nene desperate screams and hits the glass:
- I opened it, baby! I opened!
The woman changes seats and start the engine. The man hears the car but does not turn to look. Is absorbed and seems to know, in the dark, hulking mass of women who run toward him.
- I opened calibrated! - Nene hits the glass with his fists, wrestles the door handle. Behind
, Happiness and Nene looks at the man, man and Nene. Women nervous doing skate faster wheels. Nene and happy retreat. Part of the order falls to the shoulder and splashes of mud. At last the wheels hit the asphalt again and the car moves away.
While behind them the cries of women continue, the orange glow of the taillights seem anchoring them away in a quiet sadness. A hug would have liked Felicity Nene, leaning on his shoulder at least. This is when small pairs of white lights begin to illuminate the skyline.
- are back! - Said Happiness.
But Nene is not responding. He lights a cigarette and looks at the route the first couple of lights that are almost on them.
- them! "- Said Happiness" repent and return to pick us ... "No,"
Nene and releases a puff of smoke they are, yes, but return it.

slowing

Tego was scrambled eggs, but when he finally sat down and looked at the plate, he discovered he was unable to eat.
- What? I asked.
take my eyes took in the eggs.
"I'm concerned," he said, I think I'm losing speed.
moved the arm to and fro in a slow, maddening, I suppose the way, and stared, as if awaiting my verdict.
"I have no idea what you mean," I said, I'm still too sleepy.
- Did not you see what it takes to answer the phone? In answering the door, reaching for a glass of water, brush my teeth ... It is an ordeal. There
Tego a time when flying to forty miles per hour. The circus was the sky, I dragged the barrel to the center of the track. Hid lights to the public, but we heard the cry. The velvet curtains opened and Tego appeared with his silver helmet. Raised his arms to receive the applause. His bright red suit on the sand. I was in charge of gunpowder while he was up and got her slender body in the barrel. The drums of the orchestra asked all was silence and in my hands. The only sound packages were then popcorn and a nervous cough. Drew from my pocket for matches. He took them on a silver box, which still preserve. A small box but so bright you could see from the last step of the bleachers. Opened it, took out a match and rested on the sand at the base of the box. At that point all eyes were on me. With a fast-moving fire arose. Turned on the rope. The sound of the sparks was expanding in all directions. I was acting a few steps back, hinting that something terrible would happen, the public eye on the match that was consumed, "and suddenly, Boom. And Tego, a bright red arrow, went out at full speed. Tego
stepped aside eggs and rose with difficulty from his chair. I was overweight, and was old. I breathed a heavy snoring, because the column was squeezing something or the lungs, and moving around the kitchen using the chairs and the counter to help, stopping every few minutes to think, or to rest. Sometimes you just sighed and continued. He walked in silence to the kitchen door and stopped.
"I do believe I'm losing speed," he said. Miró
eggs. "I think
I'm going to die.
I pulled the plate to my side of the table, just to make it wildly.
"That happens when you fail to do well what you do best," he said. That, I thought, that one dies.
but I tried the eggs were cold. It was the last conversation we had after that took three steps toward the living clumsy and fell dead on the floor.
Journalist of a local newspaper interview comes a few days later. He signed a picture for the note, where we are with Tego along the canyon, he with his helmet and his red suit, I in blue, with the box of matches in hand. She is delighted. To learn more about Tego, I asked if there is something special that I want to say about his death, but I have no desire to continue talking about it, and I can not think of anything. As there will, I offer you a drink.
- Coffee? I ask.
- Sure! "She says. It seems be willing to listen forever. But scrape a match against my silver box to light the fire, several times, and nothing happens.

Schweblin Samantha (Buenos Aires - 1978), Argentina writer, is a graduate of the career of Image and Sound of the UBA. His storybook The core of the disturbance won the first prize of the National Endowment for the Arts 2001, and his story "By the gay capital of civilization," the first prize in the National Haroldo Conti. Participated in anthologies published by the Editorial Siruela, "Cuentos Argentinos" (Spain 2004); Norma Editorial, "The Young Guard" (Argentina 2005) and "A terrace" (Argentina 2006) and several anthologies of cultural centers such as the General San Martín and Ricardo Rojas. Some of their stories and are translated into English, French, German and Swedish. His second book of short stories, Birds in the mouth (2009), won the Prix Casa de las Americas 2008.

Clear Liquid Pre Period

Reflections on women and literature, I will

Ladies

and again I hear a voice of censure against the literary workshops and circles of women who write. In the workshops we can talk at any time: I want to deal with what today is another of the women who write. I said ladies, I said writers. Let's see. Dale Spender once asked where they were and who were the mothers of the novel. For gentlemen scholars speak, acute essayists, historians brainy, only parents of the novel. So the novel did not have mothers? Were you born like Athena from Zeus's head, armed and shouting? Or in this case Metis survived? And if so, where are those mothers of the novel? The answer to these questions was a book called Mothers of the Novel published by Routledge & Kegan Paul (Pandora Press) in London in 1986 and would have to read all very carefully to avoid mistakes or miss as little as possible when it comes to women's issues and literature. In this book not only examines each of the mothers of the novel (novel in English, of course, but Mrs. Spender might be talking about the novel in any language), but shows how sometimes subtle, sometimes vulgar, in which a patriarchal society, a University patriarchal patriarchal publishers have managed to forget a crowd of women. Not a woman. Not two or three. Not a dozen. A huge number of women who wrote, who reported between three twenty-seven novels, horror! earned a living by writing, which deserved rave reviews from his contemporaries, honors, and the explicit recognition of their male colleagues, from the seventeenth to the nineteenth century. looking much more modestly and data for a Swiss friend who did his doctoral thesis, I took the trouble to tell the writers listed in the Biographical Dictionary of Women Argentine (Plus Ultra, 1986, 38 edition) Lily Sosa de Newton and found two hundred fifty-one, not counting those already known. Perhaps the work of many of them were unimportant, perhaps it was not worth that they will appear in a literary history of Argentina, in an anthology, in reading books but confess, how many lords inconsequential, leaden, or downright bad are regular in stories, anthologies, readers? How many? Two hundred and fifty of an Argentine writer who knows nothing and that, as in the case of the English language, it is futile to try to find a single book and that that book published, and many some of them. If two hundred fifty una mujeres escribieron, publicaron y se hicieron conocer como escritoras, debe haber habido muchas más dedicadas a escribir, de las que no sabemos nada, pero nada de nada porque nunca publicaron, porque destruyeron lo que habían escrito (sensatamente en algunos casos; en otros no), porque no se les permitió creer en lo que estaban haciendo. En otras palabras, quisimos y pudimos. Todo un sistema de silenciamiento de la mitad del mundo hizo lo otro. Resultado: para la sociedad patriarcal queda demostrado que las mujeres que escriben/escribieron pasablemente bien, bien, muy bien, son una excepción, una anormalidad; en fin, casi no son mujeres. Y entonces hablemos de literatura femenina porque que la hay, there is. But before we make the necessary distinctions. A women's literature, theater, poetry, fiction and whatever comes. That may or may not be literature women's literature. In other words: not all women writing women's literature. Even otherwise, are not always the same texts written by women female texts. Everything depends, not sex, not gender, but the eyes of the writer. A women's literature written by women or men. women's literature (without implying entrenched stereotypes or statements) any text that explicitly or implicitly denied to let the social discourse dictates that a woman (all women), who is a woman (all women), as is a woman (all women), who not only refuses to let him pass but rejects , which not only rejects but seeks, where you can and as you can, not to replace another speech and definitely no more, but to try to see what happens. Women's literature is to write all that they needed a way to the black continent (or rather, to the white beach as Christiane Olivier) to discover how to see the world from there and not from here, being from there, let us understand, the silence historical fear of the veiled solitude without a name, the office of Ariadne. second incomplete syndrome. Women's literature is all that it denies, rejects and abhors the cult of the hero, or antihero. To put it mildly, not easy. But it is not impossible. Neither are the only privileged: a man can do it, a man who wants and is anime, which is even less easy. In fact, some did. The classic example is Flaubert Madame although I Bovarvy execrable me look like a book. And a classic example less and more worthy of love is Gunther Grass The Turbot . What is easy is to accept obey, say yes and write as Dad taught us to write the good girls and boys good. This is how a pile after pile of writers (increasingly less) continues to write on this side, in some cases very well but without contributing anything to the most fascinating work of rewriting, restructuring, discovery, invention and enrichment is becoming gradually everywhere. No, of course not, in a sense, literature has no sex, of course not. You do not need to know the riddles. Let's see who guesses, "to this page was written by a woman or a man? "And what do I care? Who cares? It is not that way by which we arrive, if we ever get to a field and a time that we have no word on word to defend what he writes half the world. But in some other sense, yes, the literature has sex. I would say that you have is gender. Trying to deny the gender of a text, try to strip it of its kind, is like trying to strip it of its ideology. No one enters the door literature by genre or by the door of ideology, so close to each other: it comes to literature through the door of the literature, because otherwise what comes out is a pamphlet and not a poem, a drama, a story or a novel. But there is an inscription, a stamp, a tissue conjunctive, a scaffold that holds everything in writing, an underlying ideology, a ubiquitous genus. The look of a male owner of the world, even the most miserable and oppressed, master of the world is very different, is another, is opposed to the look of a woman, hold, sleep, shadow queen is. Ideology and the author / the author almost always agree (sometimes not: Balzac), gender and the author / author can not agree, for what was said before, that a woman can not question, obey, behave well, do not move the place assigned (by others) when he writes, and one man in one of those does. From the traditional silence, the furtive glance, the historical silence comes out as you can, when fervor to get out. Sometimes you can not, but an attempt is made, who has not done? The heroines of children's stories and counting parameters. Women have released the clamp through the madness, religion, art, holiness, illness, love, surrender or death. Why should they not leave some of the silence by the most direct of the word? And coming to that group of ladies: I wish all women we write. Those who are touched by the spark of genius, the mediocre, the talented, the stupid, which will never write something good, regularonas, they write better and better, the romanticonas, the shallow, good gals, bad gals, my aunts, Mrs. corner, nurses, matrons packages the fat, the skinny, the ponies, the high, the teachers, the shop selling the Villeras, nuns, prostitutes, models, atomic physics, politics, the beggars, female athletes, the Tacheros, princesses , supermarket cashiers, all. It would be a good way to get to share power. For women, we are not a class or a race, the women are all sisters and do not know very well yet, have in common: we but a marginal fringe of a very special since the marginal tend to leave us be and we have always been born to be, we are, and perhaps we die so; we are most in the world and we are concerned, we live and act as a minority; that we are beings to other beings, we are queens or wandering, virgins or whores; that are spoken from other beings, and powerless. That a group of these marginal beings, women, unknown to himself themselves, selfless and falsely minority meets to read bad poems sentimental, welcome and keep writing nonsense, is not a danger to anyone, much less. People without power are not dangerous (unless you join and acquire by any means, something that women are far from proposing to do) because they do have to destroy them by all or some of the media range. These groups do not mean nothing, change nothing, not degenerate no, do not confuse anything. They are nothing more than that: women who are alone though they have thousands of friends and large families, women, unemployed because they were educated to be and did not know, could not, did not dare to send everything to the devil build another life. What they write, not sure but is likely worth nothing. So what. There has always been a high dose of mediocrity in all that humanity is in this world. Or as Mr. Ballard is not one of the loves of my life but it has its flashes, when he criticized that 90% of science fiction was a waste: "90% of everything is garbage." These are not groups that made the world ruled (if so) that poetry is something women. It is, again, the social discourse. Everything that happens to occupy a secondary place or thing is automatically discredited women. Religion, teaching, poetry were central to his time: the lords and owners moved in those circles and burned at the stake for women seeking a place in these activities. As the center moves to another kind of discipline, the place is vacant to be occupied by women who already know are silly, superficial, intuitive, crying, that we have nothing to do. We are dedicated to charity, the tea basket, to beg for money to our husbands, watching soap operas and fashion shows (let's ask the women of the villages). It finds, there, away from us, which are those activities that we "are", then reprochárnoslas like crime or misdemeanor we are born. These things are changing, yes, it was worse in the days of my mom and say nothing in my grandmothers, but which remain valid in certain classes and "inside", where they are more rigid boundaries between what that women should and should not do. must then acquire a critical consciousness, we must learn to doubt, question, say no. We must learn that you can always go one step further, find out what lies beneath or beside or behind. Good women who gather to drink tea and read poems that speak of the solitude of their troubled souls, not our enemy, are not so different from us, are those of our sisters who stayed in the middle of the road. Wanted, actually, and could not, unfortunately. The beat marked a society that limits and behaviors and they were unable to disobey, to doubt, say no: they believe and attacked the blind and now they have nothing left. Perhaps your home is a harpy, perhaps torment the husband, bullied children, daughters-hate, mistreat the girl for hours, bad-mouth of friends with other friends. What the torture? What did they be? "Entrepreneurs, lawyers, chorus girls, paratroopers, Formula One driver, deputies, tour guides, set designers? Did they even suspect wanted be something other than that they were told that they should be? If they could try something different, some have failed, what doubt?, Some have been successful in half, some would have become the first in his own. Now go once a week for tea and reading nonsense. No, not interested in literature, rigor, hard work, search, why would interest them? They want to know that there are others that same thing happened to them: come together to read poems that grieved is a way of life. Neither they nor the poetry of sentimental verse circumstances and have the power to change anything, to impose anything, not to make anyone believe that what they do is good literature, not to occupy the space that corresponds to a text with aesthetic stature. If at any time an officer and made him a teeny tiny little place and one of those poems, that does not change anything, if at another time a jury awarded a freak friends full of emotional outpourings or patriotic, nor anything important happens. Let's stay calm. Or maybe not, not to remain quiet. Let's keep writing, but above all let us make the necessary efforts to avoid mistakes, to try to see what is really behind what we feel corny or stupid, to step further, to take over the world that look different than us towards what we are and not what we were told that we are.

Koh Helps Cricket Respiration

Gorodischer Angelica poem, Lilian

I will

lama wool lara

lily mud wall

I will only

A stone chisel

nail hole

; art

Give pure

'll land

pachamadre

night do not stop

; note

; night

black onyx pearl

soft

point line plane

; grows

; grows

; plays

Lilián Gelabert, was born in Avellaneda, Buenos Aires, Argentina. Sculptor and art therapist is also dedicated to poetry. To see the sculptures go to your blog

Difference Between Folliculitis And Herpes

Occupation Gelabert, Monica Pedemonte

This doll is mine
I found
lost in a minefield in Vietnam,
was alone in a Jewish house
of a suburb of Hamburg
the thirty-ninth year, was for

niece of this soldier died
of the International Brigades,
that he studied at Oxford
and never seen again.
I assure you it was not Barbie
or Mariquita Perez.
I know it's mine,
because it had eyes, he lost

in Sarajevo and I added some small
a tin soldier
of the First World War.

I belong because I had no heart
smashed it
in the Plaza de Mayo,
and I lent him mine.


(Veronica Pedersen, Rim Voices, Poetry and conflict . Fundación Juan Ramón Jiménez, Moguer, Huelva, 2001)

Veronica Pedemonte Morillo-Velarde, author of English nationality, was born in Montevideo . linguist and psychologist exercises journalism. Among his many awards count: International Prize for Poetry Gerardo Diego, (2000), International Award of Kutxa Irun (2002), finalist for the International Mellilla City 2004, First Prize Second Prize International City of Palms ( 2005), among others . He has participated in various Anthologies. Source: The Blog Silvia Loustau

Source: Unusual, walking on the wild side of literature
Illustration

Average Price For Day Care 2010 Miami

Two poems of Ana Pérez Cañamares Snapshots

Orthodontics

Through the wire

of my mouth

your kisses they taste.
of freedom.

In this city of broken lines

In this city of broken lines
of houses occupied by dust masks
of some famous murderers thieves

not know what to do with the time it becomes

shell container that gets recycled paper
world scares me sometimes can not distinguish friend from foe
and lock myself in my house
a wall of books and incense
bodies and bases
look at the street and threaten the sirens
though I am guilty only of thought and speech

Ana Perez Cañamares was born in Santa Cruz de Tenerife in 1968. A degree in Philology from the Universidad Complutense de Madrid. Several
their stories have been published in collective works as Please be brief: an anthology of short stories and hiperbreves Lavapiés . He has won awards for poetry and stories (he was a finalist Vertical Smile, within the collective Both Cori) and collaborates regularly in literary journals for writing stories, articles and reviews.
currently offered through the Internet, an introductory workshop on writing.

Poetry Awards Youth Radio, Gloria Fuertes and Golden Pen Courses film analysis and criticism (Film: an introductory course) at Birkbeck College, University of London. Professor of literary workshops (classroom and distance). Editor of teaching literature and proofreader.

Rear Shoulder Blade Pain

, Beatriz Sarlo

The two nations

I first saw the vegetation under the moonlight.

Too strange and exotic. reveals its exoticism

slowly through the veil of familiar things.

I went into the bush. For a moment I was afraid

and I had to control myself.

Malinowski wrote these words in his diary, eighty years ago. He had traveled to the Trobriand Islands to face a critical research of modern anthropology. It was a Pole who was English by his tastes and habits and European (ie non-English) for their mentality. He kept the exact distance to the cultures he studied and he cursed the moment he decided to study them. The publication of his diaries , until recently unknown, shows how he wearied of life on the islands of the Pacific, dirt and so called ( quite some anthropological) lack of civilization.

She tells me she can not go on Saturdays and Sundays. Everything together, since they are married, she and her husband, must be protected during the weekends: the TV, electric alarm clock, the tape recorder, the multiprocessor and kitchenware. Monday through Friday, a little neighbor cared for the child and the house: rather, it contains locked, turn the TV at seven in the morning and expect them to return at six in the afternoon. Then, the girl next door termiana day work of serene and woman with her husband begin to live and prepare the house for the night. The girl next door works not finally week. The woman and her husband, on Saturday morning, they take turns shopping, take the boy to the square and made a run to the house of the mother or the mother. At dusk, close doors, windows would clog and begin to look after the house. On Sunday, the same thing. On Monday, relieving the girl next door.

The fund gives a wasteland, separated by a perimeter wall which is crowned with shards of glass. Anyway, the wall was chipped several times by people seeking a way to cut or break, passing through the bottom of the house, wearing a shirt that hung from the rope. in the background is the pump and pump motor, under a tin bell, secured the floor by chains. This pump is a constant concern because the chains can be cut. From the barren background noise of birds arrive, meowing at night, and smell of the countryside. There is an exotic, is simply a dangerous area at night.

To the side of the coast to the east and north, thirty blocks away, takes the highway. At six o'clock in the afternoon, the car caravan to tuck in the country-club, together they feel more protected from violence and assaults. Close to the country-clubs are slums and slums, the caravan of cars going sideways, almost untouched. But it is impossible not to see them, sheets and cartons that look like a box material Berni.

On Sunday morning, the people of the country-club takes field trips to the nearest supermarket. They can also purchase, at the side of the highway selling kites mandarins and adolescents from the villas. Among the country-club and supermarket runs a landscape whose mixture is vaguely exotic: it reminds photos of Mexico City or Lima. Several blocks from the highway, you see the thatched roofs of the houses in the country-club, closer, mounds of eucalyptus, on the road, badly dressed boys waving bouquets or boxes of strawberries, on the route finally sheet structures, grills enveloped in smoke, and cars with glass polarized go to the supermarket or get their owners to visit friends.

A night under the moonlight, the landscape is strange. The exotic nature of "slowly reveals" a middle-range stirring sounds: the cries of birds, the rustle of the leaves on the mounds of eucalyptus, Bailanta music coming from the town, footsteps on the gravel beside the Highway, runs, and the hum of car engines when fired over a hundred. Occasionally, a blast of rock or shot.

day be together images of two nations (the people of the tile roofs of the boxes and sheet), and at night are mixed also, the sounds of two na tions, "under vegetation and in light of the moon."

At the junction of the highway with a major street in the metropolitan area, the inhabitants of both nations make their exchanges, the women of the boxes are offered for domestic work or sell lemons and basil plants, they and their men also ; shopping there a few things, hardware, plastic bowls, medium and divers. under the highway, important corners, large swimming pools corralones sold in plastic, and giant blue are supported against each other, next to racks of equipment, planters greenhouse folding chairs and tables with umbrella. All businesses have security bars, police dogs, alarms, safes built into the walls. The boys of women who offer their work roam between bus stops or park on any station that is not completely hostile, in other stations, are the teenagers in the country-clubs who eat burgers while watches their bikes.

The landscape is more or less ordered on Sunday morning. At night, the lights are sordid in bus stops around the teens that spin fishing, watching passing cars. At dawn, the desolation of the mixture of light and silence half expands on the remains of the two nations: a convertible with the blaring pasacasette, kiosk that come to their journals, some guys from beer cans and pizza boxes. The eucalyptus grove is a black background partially hidden by the huge volumes of swimming pools as whales stranded in the courtyard of the corrals. The set "too strange and exotic" slowly reveals itself through the "veil of familiar things."

Perhaps most familiar are the names painted on the walls of the highway, on downhill toward avenues Duhalde, Pierri, Menem 99. For some reason, people in the boxes and the country-club I put a vote in the years that passed.

Beatriz Sarlo, Snapshots , media, city and Customs at the end of the century, Cia Editora Espasa Calpe SA / Ariel

About the author: Beatriz Sarlo (Buenos Aires n. , 1942) is an essayist Argentina in the field of literary and cultural criticism. Argentina was a professor of literature at the Faculty of Arts the University Buenos Aires . Taught at the universities of Columbia, Berkeley, Maryland and Minnesota, was a fellow of the Wilson Center in Washington and Simón Bolívar Professor of Latin American Studies at the University of Cambridge. It is part of the group of Latin American intellectual critics, focuses on studies of postmodernity the subcontinent, which he called peripheral modernity. The book of the same title alongside scenes postmodern life have earned him the consecration in the academic field. Apart from its texts, its columns, in leading journals of culture Argentina and Latin America - a lucid attempt to socio-cultural transformations now turned much of the crisis of modernity and the effects of neoliberalism. The way in which, in terms of Karl Marx - there is the reification of social codes gives way to understand how a system is the capital at the expense of the obsolete and decaying social institutions today.

The mall, if shopping is a good responds to a total order but at the same time, should give an idea of \u200b\u200bfree travel: it is derived from the ordinate (...) market only very young children can get lost in a mall, because an accident can separate them from other people and that absence is not balanced by the meeting of goods.

This crisis of the institutions (with all its public space) represents a shift to modern peripheral set is suspended on the imitation of modernity. In this sense, it shares a place in the analysis of current latioamericana culture with authors such as Néstor García Canclini or Jesus Martin-Barbero .

Beatriz Sarlo is married to film director Rafael Filipelli .

Bra Size Breast Comparison

A tale Angeles Mastretta

 

One evening Aunt Rose looked at her sister as a freshly polished, still bright for some reason she did not

could imagine. For hours, heard every word of it trying to guess where they came from. Do not guess.

only knew that the night his sister was less abrupt with her. He behaved as if finally forgive him his vocation prayers and stews, as if not to laugh never his unredeemed singleness of his folly catechetical, its boring devotion to the Virgin del Carmen.

So he went to sleep in peace after repeating the rosary and dunking cookies in milk chocolate butter.

Who knows what her first sleep that night. If someone had seen, plump and smiling in her nightgown, I would have compared to a child under five years. However, the curly head of Aunt Rosa came in a dream that night suspected.

dreamed that his sister was going to a costume ball, coming out quietly and came back in the middle of a fuss. It was the breath of a parade of men who laughed with her, without further task that accompany the joy that rolled around the body. The very happy he took off and put on a mask of those they do in Venice, one of many rights colors with the moon on the tip of the head and mouth delusional. Suddenly began to dance in front of Aunt Rosa, who sat in the principal chair in the room, stopped eating cookies. Such was the wonder that had entered his home. His sister lifted her legs to dance the cancan to 1os other humming, but instead of lace panties and the cancaneras, she wore a tiny skirt up pleased with her legs showing her pubic hard and moved. Because the site that is the pubis, she had painted decoration of yellow leaves, green, purple, throbbing as if in the center of the world. And on top of a leg, bri liant foam, was the lock of her pubic hair: traveler and free as everything in it.

The next day, Aunt Rose looked at his sister as if seeing it for the first time.

"I think I'm getting," he said.

"Amen," replied the sister, bringing her bright face, to kiss the women that give love because they no longer fit under clothing.

"Amen," said Rosa, and began to skip his own dream.

Angeles Mastretta

Story taken from Women with Big Eyes Ed. Seix Barral

About the author: The writer and journalist Angeles Mexican Mastretta born October 9, 1949 in Puebla, where he lived until 1971. That year his father died, called Carlos , quien ejerció una fuerte influencia en el oficio elegido por su hija.

Ángeles estudió periodismo en la Facultad de Ciencias Políticas y Sociales de la Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México (UNAM) y obtuvo el título en Comunicaciones . Tiempo después, realizó colaboraciones para distintos periódicos y revistas como “Excélsior” , “Unomásuno” , “La Jornada” y "Process" . However, it was the newspaper "Cheers" where formally began his journalistic career, through a column written by her under the title "From everyday absurd" .

In 1974, Mastretta was awarded a scholarship from the Mexican Center of Writers that allowed him to participate in a workshop alongside literary writers like Juan Rulfo and Salvador Elizondo. At that time, published a collection of poetry was titled "The slut paints" .

After several years as director of Cultural Diffusion-Acatlán ENEP and University Museum Poplar , respectively, the Mexican writer participated, along with Germain Dehesa, a program television interviews and talks known as "The Pillow" . Throughout his career, Angeles was also on the Editorial Board "NEXUS" , another of the publications had its literary column.

"Tear This Heart" was his first novel, besides being translated into Italian, English, German, French and Dutch, was recognized in 1985 as Best Book of the Year with Mazatlán Prize for Literature . Years later, in 1997, his second novel (and fourth book), "Mal de amores" , won the Rómulo Gallegos Prize .

"Women with Big Eyes" , "free port" , "The enlightened world" , "No eternity like mine" and "Heaven of lions" are other works of Ángeles Mastretta .