Happy old, and new, ears! much love queridos readers

Olga Day

hoy terminé un capítulo de mi novela :DD y exclamo con Olga...

no lo muestro aun; pero si lo hiciera, Olga traduciría fielmente mis pensamientos al decir:

aunque naturalmente tampoco lo mostraría en esta etapa, ya que:

me falta para concluir todo por suerte... (¿a qué terminar algo en el verano, sin atravesar un fuerte invierno de correcciones?)

in the times UK

(thank u paul dear)

and meanwhile, as the internet oceans send back and forth the loving cables of IWP writers from all over the world, this xmas message lands in:

Dear friends of my favourite 2010 memory,

if someone wishes Merry Christmas who doesn't even celebrate it (I don't name anyone, but the person lives in Israel) I feel obliged to do so too: MERRY CHRISTMAS from whiter than white Bavaria! The goose has been devoured and my Lederhosen feel tight so I will have problems chasing the annoyingly innocent children's choir away when they will knock at our door.
Let every snowflake be a good idea for you!

Missing you,

Christopher

Hey kiddies

Miss Peggy

Qu'est-ce qu'un auteur?

¿Qué es un autor?
Fotografías de Paola Cortés Rocca & Sebastián Freire

Inaugura: Miércoles 29 de diciembre a partir de las 19hs. Librería Eterna Cadencia Honduras 5574


“Cada retrato de esta serie es una huella particular de esa relación, entre el retratado y la mirada en la escena de la toma. Es, también, un fragmento de una imagen más compleja. “Nuestros” retratos muestran gente que conocemos y reconocemos, pero también gente que se conoce entre sí, que ha compartido lugares de trabajo y lecturas; que está unida por la amistad, la admiración, el amor, el reconocimiento, las discusiones ocasionales o definitivas. Pueden mirarse como puntos de una trama privada y pública, cultural y personal, que compone otro rostro posible de la literatura en Argentina.”

That voodoo

visionando la boda del año...

World Game Report

12 thesis on wikileaks, on Le monde diplomatique

[...] One could call this the ’Talibanization’ stage of postmodern - "Flat World" - theory where scales, times, and places have been declared largely irrelevant. What counts is the celebrity momentum and the intensive accumulation of media attention. Wikileaks manages to capture that attention by way of spectacular information hacks where other parties, especially civil society groups and human rights organizations, are desperately struggling to get their message across. Whereas the latter tend to play by the rules and seek legitimacy from dominant institutions, Wikileaks¹ strategy is a populist one that taps into widespread public disaffection with mainstream politics. Political legitimacy, for Wikileaks, is no longer something graciously bestowed upon minor actors by the powers that be. Wikileaks bypasses this old world structure of power and instead goes to the source of political legitimacy in the info-society today: the rapturous banality of the spectacle. Wikileaks genially puts to use the ’escape velocity’ of IT - using IT to leave IT behind and rudely irrupt the realm of real-world politics.

Support the Bielorrusians with Lillies

my friend the Bielorrusian poet Maryia Martysevich groupsends a hasty email, asking us to googletranslate this poem by Andrej Adamovich, a Bielorrusian young poet, and if possible have it published our domestic media. Over 600 people have been arrested for protesting after the election; "I realize that poetical reflection isn't anything you expect the first day after hundreds of people were beaten and arrested while protesting against false elections, but still let me show you the essay below." the english googletranslate, with its whimsical non-connecting grammar and sudden jumps of meaning, can be a natural force of poetry. though a couldn't make sense of a few words, it felt still like a beatiful poem. behold the core in Spanish, on the bday of the 2001 Argentine social uproar:

Lirios
Ayer, cuando estábamos fuera de la zona, nos sentamos uno junto al otro. Ella me mostró una imagen de esa noche, en una de las áreas de dormir. Otra ofreció por su acuarela cien rublos, aunque valía mil.

En la figura hay lirios amarillos sobre un fondo rojo, y círculos precipitados, dibujados con fuerza, en azul. En el reverso del papel hay un poema sobre ellos. Los versos están llenos de energía como la imagen, pero son igual de ingenuos. El artista no parecía saber qué palabras usar y cómo deben estar en el texto. Sus líneas quieren salir de la hoja, pero se dan cuenta de que es físicamente imposible. A través de medios tan primitivos, la victoria de la hoja sobre el arte absorbe la fuerza del impacto.

Lo que pasó ayer -es esa acuarela de lirios ingenuos. Muchas, muchas, muchas personas, como jamás he visto en un solo lugar, vinieron a hablar, sin darse cuenta que en esta hoja blanca que es Minsk hay límites. Donde se produce una dictadura, pero sólo una. Todo lo que pasó ayer - es sólo otro intento de pintar el lirio, a despecho de las propiedades de la pintura y de los principios de la composición. Nosotros queríamos conquistar el poder real del espíritu, pero los críticos de arte lo vieron sólo como una violación de las leyes de la composición y el sentido común.


Лілея
Учора, калі мы ўжо сыйшлі с плошчы, мы сядзелі ў сябра. Ён падарыў мне малюначак, які ўначы, у адным са спальных раёнаў набыў у дзяўчынкі, з выгляду аўтысткі. Яна прасіла за сваю інсітную акварэль сто рублёў, але ён даў тысячу.

На малюнку, на чырвоным тле – жоўтыя лілеі, энэргічна абведзеныя сіняю асадкаю. На адваротным баку аркуша – верш пра іх, такі самы энэргічны як малюнак, але такі самы наіўны – мастак нібы не ведаў, што такое словы і як яны мусяць складацца ў тэкст. Яго лініі хочуць вырвацца за межы аркуша, але не разумеюць, што гэта фізічна немагчыма. Праз гэтую першабытную, але пераможаную межамі аркуша энэргію малюнак мае звышнатурльную моц ўздзеяньня.

Тое, што адбывалася ўчора, – інсітныя лілеі. Шмат, шмат, шмат людзей, столькі я ніколі не бачыў у адным месца разам, выйшлі, каб выказацца, але не ўлічылі, што ў гэтага белага аркуша Мінска ёсць межы, праведзенныя дыктатураю аднойчы, але ўпэўнена і назаўсёды. Усё, што адбывалася ўчора, – гэта проста чарговая спроба намаляваць лілеі, незважаючы на ўласцівасьці фарбаў і прынцыпы кампазіцыі. Мы, як тая дзяўчынка-аўтыстка, хацелі перамагчы рэальнае моцаю духа, але мастацкія крытыкі убачылі ў гэтым толькі парушэньне законаў кампазіцыі і здаровага сэнсу.

Я хачу напісаць пра тое, што бачыў учора. Хто я такі, каб рабіць гэта? Ніхто. Я напраўду адмарозак, як казаў пра мяне АГЛ. Я не зрабіў кар’еры, я не зарабляю вялікіх грошаў. Я басаногі, але даўно ўжо не хлопчык. Учора жонка назвала мяне няўдахаю. Гэта праўда. Мне няма чаго страчваць. Але ўчора на плошчы я бачыў прафесіяналаў, якіх паважаю. Я ведаю, што яны дасягнулі ўсяго, што можа дасягнуць чалавек у прафесіі. Яны не маюць нястачы ў грошах, яны проста хочуць выказацца.

Дый тая задаволеная большасць, якая спала ў гэты час па малінаўках і зялёных лугах, такая ж басаногая, як я. У лепшым выпадку яны маюць патрыманыя машыны і свежаадбудаваныя кватэры, кошт якіх упадзе крыху ніжэй за ніякі пры першым-лепшым перакрыцці газавага венцілю. Бо без людзей гэты ячэісты бетон і гэтыя механічныя каробкі не каштуюць нічога. А людзей – здзьме эканамічным ветрам у Еўропу ці Расію менш, чым за тыдзень. Яны будуць гандляваць у Польшчы, будаваць шматпавярховікі ў Маскве, яны будуць начаваць у вагончыках – карацей, змрочныя дзевяностыя бліжэй, чым ім падаецца.

Учора я ішоў на плошчу паўз вокны рэстарану. Вялікія вокны, поўныя маладой буржуазіяй. Добра апранутыя мужчыны кармілі сваіх жанчын грашыма з талерак. Мужчыны глядзелі ў вочы сваіх жанчын, але зрэдку мы сустракаліся позіркамі. І я, і яны – мы ўсё разумелі. Я разумеў, чаму я іду на плошчу, а яны – чаму яны сядзяць у дарагой вопратцы над талеркамі поўнымі грошай. І ў іх вачах было што заўгодна: пачуццё перавагі, снабізм, які можна дазволіць сабе, заліваючы спадарожніцу французскім шампанскім, але ў іх не было аднаго – страху.

А пасля, паьля скончыліся вокны з наведнікамі і пачаліся вокны, поўныя белых халатаў кухні. Маладыя няўдахі, кшталту мяне, шчыравалі над ежаю, ператвараючы яе ў грошы, яны сустракаліся позіркамі са мною, і ў гэтых позірках быў страх. Яны баяліся, баяліся за свае ланцугі.

Тады я сказаў сябру:
– Пасля перамогі нагадай мне, што я збіраўся разграміць гэтыя галеры.

Праз пяцьсот крокаў мы ўліліся ў натоўп і сталі часткаю вялікай Лілеі, што не змяшчалася на аркуш. Тут было шмат тых, каго я ведаю асабіста. Маладыя прафесіяналы, людзі творчых прафесіяў, проста нейкія мутныя асобы без пэўных заняткаў – мае сябры. Але тут былі і крэпкія маладыя мужчыны. Пазней у інтэрнэце, я бачыў, іх называлі крывавымі правакатарамі.

Можа быць, але там я спадзяваўся, што гэта працоўныя, якія больш не баяцца за ланцугі. Працоўныя з серабранак, на якіх мы чакалі так даўно. Чакалі столькі, колькія я помню, як лілеі малююць на вуліцах.

Там, на плошчы, я зрабіўся часткаю гэтага вялікага, незразумелага мне малюнку. Адною рысачкаю, якую мастак хацеў ператварыць у сцябліну, або ў лісток, але ён забыўся пра гэтую рысачку, і яна так і засталася – недаведзенаю да агульнай карціны. Карціны, якая і складалася толькі з такіх вось недаведзяных рысачак.

Побач са мною былі мае сябры. І людзі, якіх я ніколі да гэтага не бачыў. Мы крычалі нейкія дзіўныя словы, у якіх даўно ніхто не верыў. Незабытыя, але сцертыя словы, сэнс якіх падаваўся далёкаю абяцанаю зямлёю, у якую ніхто з нас не прыйдзе. Бо Маісей, спускаючыся з Сінаю, звярнуў шыю.

Мастак, які пачаў маляваць лілію, ужо забыўся на нас. На мяне, на старога паэта побач са мною, на дызайнераў і праграмістаў, на манагераў і дробных прадпраймальнікаў – на ўсіх, хто стаяў плячо да спіны і спіна да нечаканай лакуны ў малюнку. Лакуны, пакінутай па неахайнасці.


Праз доўгія хвіліны чаканьня, пакуль хтосьці казаў штосьці ў мікрафон, але словаў усё адно не было чуваць, усе мы зрушылі на праспект. Міліцыянты, якія вартавалі дарогу, падаваліся адным з намі цэлым. Яны не былі ні агрэсіўнымі, ні напужаным, нібы яны былі самаарганізаванай часткаю лілеі, эрытрацытамі ў яе жылах – тым, кім і мусілі б быць.

На праспекце стала бачна, як нас насамрэч шмат. Хтосьці падпаліў фаеры. Але гэтая колькасьць людзей-рысачак, якія замалявалі вуліцу ад Кастрычніцкай да Цэнтральнай кнігарні, нічога не мяняла ў вачах галоўнага крытыка. Бо ніводзін крытык у сваіх адзнаках не кіруецца такім крытэрам, як колькасьць паасобных рысачак на малюнку. Спадзявацца на гэта было б смешна.

Ужо на іншай плошчы, якую мы занялі, здаецца, бяз бою, хтосьці званіў у чарнобыльскі звон Чырвонага касцёлу. Я не ведаю, ці ўмеў гэты чалавек званіць, ці разбіў ён звон. Ці вырвуць гэтаму звону язык. Але я ведаю, што хтосьці мусіў схапіць вяроўку і пачаць гаварыць над галовамі людзей. Бо ўсе сабраліся толькі з адною мэтаю – гаварыць, чаго б гэта ні каштавала. Цяжка гаварыць, калі цябе не слухаюць, немагчыма гаварыць з вырваным языком – але пакуль вялікі крытык не схіліўся над аркушам, пакуль ты не папрасіў у яго сто рублёў за сваю лілею, ты вольны маляваць што табе хочацца, што падказвае табе сумленне мастака.

Нехта ўскараскаўся на Леніна і казаў правільныя словы, якія, пасіленыя апаратураю, разляталіся над галовамі сабраных. Ён заклікаў тэлефанаваць сябрам і клікаць іх на плошчу. Нібы не ведаў, што ўсе, каму гэта было важна, і так былі там.
А далей, далей рысачкі скончыліся, і быў час напраўду даведацца, ці змогуць яны ператварыцца ў малюнак, быў час вырашаць. Кожны вырашаў, пайсці ці застацца. Было толькі два выйсця: граміць Дом Ураду ці ісці спаць. Я не быў гатовы ламаць дзьверы і біцца з маладымі хлопцамі, што стаялі па той бок аркушу.

Тых, хто ламаў дзверы, называюць правакатарамі, але я не ведаю, чаго хацелі тыя, хто заклікаў на плошчу грамчэй за астатніх. Мірных перамоваў? Але хіба можа дзяўчынка-аўтыстка прадаць свой малюнак на Сотбіс? Прынамсі, пакуль яна жывая.
Я сыйшоў. Мы сядзелі з сябрам у ягоным офісе, мы яшчэ чулі, як лунае над плошчаю покліч да ўладаў. Словы, якія даўно сцерліся аб яе цвёрды граніт. Мы пілі гарачую гарбату і каву. Мы разглядалі намалёваную дзяўчынкаю лілею. Мы яшчэ нічога не ведалі ні пра зламаныя дзверы, ні пра бойню на плошчы. Бойню без нумара. Чарговую.

Я сеў у маршрутку і разам са стомленымі напрыканцы цяжкога дня людзьмі, што ехалі ў спальны раён, прыехаў дадому. Мне тэлефанавалі тыя, хто хваляваўся за мяне. Дарэмна. Я быў негатовы да таго, каб пайсьці на штурм. Пакуль я гатовы толькі разглядаць лілеі.

Чалавек памірае адзін і голы. Мастацкія крыткі вынеслі прысуд інсітнай працы дзяўчынкі-аўтысткі: «Кампазыцыя ня верная на 76 ацоткаў». Хай яны помняць, што чалавек памірае голы і ў адзіноце. Хай яны помняць, што пашкадавалі сто рублёў для той, якая проста хацела, каб яе лілею стрымана пахвалілі.

Няхай яны помняць, што сапраўднага мастака не спыніць ні адсутнасць фарбаў, ні адсутнасць паперы. Мастак пачне маляваць крывёю. Для яго напраўду існуе толькі лілея – і нічога больш.

Romanticismo político

Powered by Ariel Schettini

ariel, ravishing poet, curates this poetry show on tue

Conditions for the revolution /Online

short story by PO for Granta 113

translation by Mara Faye Lethem

That morning, Mara went by her mother’s house to get some clean clothes. She slid between the armchairs in the living room and the coffee tables overflowing with magazines; she didn’t want to run into her. On the modular shelving in the library, flanked by books by Eduardo Galeano and Gabriel García Márquez, the computer screen showed an unfinished game of solitaire. Mother Cris wasn’t there. She’d been a little depressed because Quique, her current lover, had way too much time on his hands. At first he wandered around Cris’s house, leaving his toothbrush there, and then kindly (suspiciously) offering to cook, until one day she gave him a hard stare and said, look, I think that, these days, the most important thing in a relationship is respecting each other’s space, but if you need to, please let me finish, if you really need to, you can stay here. Quique was of medium height and had brown eyes and a disorientated air about him, but he seemed stripped of everything that makes disorientation an attractive or romantic trait.

‘You don’t recognize me because I let my grey come in and now I have a ponytail.’ He had brought his snout closer.

full piece

Odile

Party Best of Tonite

Thursday 2 December: Introducing The Best of Young Spanish-language Novelists: The NYC Launch of Granta 113.

Idlewild Books, 12 W. 19th, NYC 10011, 7 p.m. Please RSVP at events@granta.com


no son todos chicos eh. también hay unas chicas

alta lit en brooklyn heights

mi primo, que es la reencarnación corporate de oscar wilde, lee y subraya "Peticotas: Peripecias, alegrías y sublimos desencantos" de Mimicha Reuteman. duermo un poco y copio algunos pasajes esenciales para ustedes telépatas.

State of the Code @UFlorida

Fall 2010 Semester

Guest Lecture by Argentine Author Pola Oloixarac "State of the Code New Military technologies for old literary problems."

Wednesday, December 1, 2010 Pugh Hall Conference Room 120 Presentation starts at 7:00 p.m.

Pola Oloixarac (1977, Argentina), is an Argentine contemporary writer, essayist, and cultural critic. Recently, she has appeared in the prestigious Granta's list of "Best young Spanish writers." She has become internationally known for her experimental novel Las Teorias Salvajes (Entropia, 2008), which stirred the Argentinean and the international literary circles in the past two years. This novel, published in Argentina and Spain, has been described as recklessly intelligent and "without love," crossing disciplines and genres, and intersecting heterogeneous spaces such as video games and the institutionalization of postmodern warfare. Her talk "State of the Code New Military technologies for old literary problems" will address the effects these ruptures have on our society and their relation to contemporary literature.

Wednesday December 1st 2010 - Group Discussion (morning)

Pugh Hall Conference Room 210

9.30 am -Welcome and Coffee

9.45 am - Presentation and excerpt reading from the author

10.15 am- Impressions and commentaries of themes in Las teorías salvajes by graduate students and invited faculty.

10.45 am -Workshop (open roundtable for Q & A on literary motifs and critical readings(

11.30 am- Closing remakrs by Prof. Carina González

12.pm - 2pm Lunck break

Wednesday December 1st 2010 - Presentation (evening)

Pugh Hall Conference Room 210

7pm am - Open reception

7.15 am - Presentation of Pola Oloixarac by Gerardo Muñoz. “With whom are we at war? On Pola Oloixarac’s dialectics of politics and desire”.

7.30 am- Pola Oloixarac’s academic presentation “State of the code: New military technologies for old literary problems”

8 pm - Q & A from the audience

8.15 pm - Refreshments and conversation

8.30 pm Dinner with the author and participants who RSVP

In Gator Land

llego de noche a gainesville, florida, y rápidamente me siento a gusto, por la amabilidad de mis hosts y porque los alligators son ubicuos y quizás llegue a ver a alguno pasar junto a mi habitación de hotel, pero está oscuro -ellos son enormes. acá cerca es el pantano Fakahatchee, donde mora la Orquidea Fantasma que comparten Charlie Kaufman y Susan Orlean; de acá es el pastor que hizo a mi amiga Ghada vestirse de redneck en Iowa (es un vecino más que se pasea en Cadillac). para llegar acá, pasé por seguridad en JFK detrás de Kim Kardashian -sus botas de cuero taco aguja over-theknee en la bandejita pre-moi-, en el avion viajé junto a una hipóstasis del Coco Basile en forma de banquero de citibank que me prestó su ipad para ver sus versiones pirateadas de Cazadores de Utopías y Montoneros Una historia, de Andrés di; antes de combinar a Gainesville un argentino de bigotes, personal del aeropuerto, me ayudó a destrabajar mi maletita y resultó ser un colimba de Infantería Marina durante 76-77, me contó que estaba en Puerto Madryn y lo llamaron para derrocar a Isabel y de compañeros de colimba muertos por guerrilleros solo por ser colimbas y también vio cómo tiraban de los helicópteros a los cautivos encapuchados al río, en Zárate. en el avión, leo sobre la maravillosa voz, que no escuché, de la soprano rusa Marina Poplaskaya, la nueva diva de la ópera -el New Yorker cubre su concierto con Baremboim en el Colón- y me encanta usa pero quiero, necesito 1. dormir 2. volver a buenos aires!

Cumbia baby

la señorita Carolina Luna, una lectora, me (nos) manda este videito

Vuelvo y voy

Translating culture @Columbia

glorious day

morning nyc! u and me, computer+tea

+slice of automnly Central Park

Burroughs les desea feliz día del pavo para todos

Hoy es Thanksgiving, llueve y NYC está desierta.

War, desire and the contemporary @Florida

Desativar humanos!

pela Pola Oloixarac reporteira na Silicon Valley pra Revista Alfa

traduçao: Ronaldo Bressane

Na varanda de uma mansão à beira do Oceano Pacífico, em uma das áreas mais sofisticadas de São Francisco, um mago anão de largas barbas brancas conversa com um homem de óculos cuja roupa parece um computador — o assunto é uma professora que provou que seu papagaio pensava. Freakolândia? Nada disso. O primeiro sujeito é James Randi, o mágico que desmascarou o vidente Uri Geller, uma espécie de superpadre Quevedo dos anos 70; o segundo é o inventor Steve Mann, conhecido como o “primeiro ciborgue” por seu trabalho com câmeras adaptáveis ao corpo; a professora é Irene Pepperberg, autoridade de Harvard em cognição animal. Ali por perto há uma biblioteca com o alfabeto essencial dos mestres da ficção científica: Isaac Asimov, J.G. Ballard, Arthur C. Clarke. Do terraço, o olhar se perde em uma vista magnífica do Exploratorium, o museu de ciências onde Kim Novak e James Stewart passearam para as lentes de Alfred Hitchcock em Um Corpo Que Cai. Dispersos pelos três andares da residência, papeando e bebendo champanhe, esquisitões multidiplomados se misturam a homens de turbante, nerds entusiasmados e milionários californianos — entre eles está ninguém menos que Larry Page, fundador do Google. O dono da mansão é Peter Thiel, criador do PayPal, empresa pioneira na transferência financeira pela internet e um dos primeiros investidores do Facebook. Tudo parece fantasioso. Mas está acontecendo. Aqui, agora.

Area 51 Resort

En el mapa de Area 51, la base militar secreta que agita el folklore OVNI, los usuarios dejan ratings, comentarios y recomendaciones para un resort para no-humanos indocumentados.

Tonite

a postcard from cambridge, mit clara

p! and the iranian revolution

nyc

Invita Tony

Friday 19 November: Granta 113: The Miami Book Fair Launch Party
Join novelists Pola Oloixarac and Carlos Yushimito and editors John Freeman, Aurelio Major and Valerie Miles to celebrate the US launch.

Gemma Lounge, 529 Lincoln Road, Miami, FL 33139, 8 p.m.

----------

Saturday 20 November: Introducing The Best of Young Spanish-language Novelists: The US Launch
Pola Oloixarac, Carlos Yushimito and editors John Freeman, Aurelio Major and Valerie Miles ask: Why this list? and Why now?

Miami International Book Fair, Room 3314 (Building 3, 3rd Floor), Miami Dade College, 300 NE Second Ave, Miami, FL 33132, 4 p.m.

How to make your friends paranoid!

a room with a view

of new york f city!

Bravo Michel!

Enfin ! Décernant leur prix à Michel Houellebecq, pour La Carte et le Territoire (Flammarion), les jurés ont mis un terme à une longue histoire de rendez-vous manqués, de polémiques et de malentendus. (tout)

...reading in NYC !!

/


\\//
The University of Iowa’s International Writing Program and Granta present:

One-Way Street:
An Evening with Pola Oloixarac, Billy Kahora, and H.M. Naqvi

Sunday, November 14th, 2010
6:00 pm
BookCourt
163 Court Street (between Pacific & Dean)
Brooklyn, NY

The IWP and Granta come together in New York City to celebrate the affiliations of three of this year's IWP's writers-in-residence with the UK literary journal/giant:

Pola Oloixarac (Argentina), was recently named one of the "Best Young Spanish Language Novelists," and will be featured in the forthcoming issue, release on November 11th.

Billy Kahora (Kenya), Editor of the journal 'Kwani?,' has published a number of pieces for Granta online.

H.M. Naqvi (Pakistan), will also read, author of the novel 'Homeboy,' recently shortlisted for the $50,000 DSC Prize for South Asian Literature

Please come out to the event, or tell your friends to (!), an early Sunday evening marking the literary crossing of international proportions... RSVP!

runaway day

Spotted on Cambridge

catch by Maryia Martysevich, with love from Byelorussia in the snow!

Neorrealismo porno chileno

"No crean que vamos a mostrar una tremenda orgía en pantalla. Lo que queremos hacer es ocupar todo esto de los mineros y hacer algo simpático, pero también con una crítica social. Todo esto se enmarca en la celebración de los diez años del porno chileno", dijo el director a un diario local, y agregó: "Nosotros no vemos a los mineros como héroes, sino como víctimas de un sistema que está mal hecho y que provocó todo", agregó. (full story)

Blood for maps

A Nicaraguan military commander recently invaded Costa Rican territory, and ordered troops to take down a Costa Rican flag and replace it with Nicaragua's. The incident was caused by an error in Google Maps. (full story)

Happy Carl Sagan day!

"a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam [...] the Earth is where we make our stand."

"Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. "

a present from ek :)

We're busy doing nothing

from anja :)

Dating for the aesthetically challenged

Nombre:

The Ugly Bug Ball

Razonamiento/Misión:

1. Half of UK daters aren’t pretty so instead of fishing in a small pool of prettiness and getting nowhere dive into an ocean of uglies and have more choice.
   
   
2. Ugly people are a better calibre of human - pretty people generally aren’t very nice and tend to be a bit shallow
   
   
3. Ugly people have had a tougher life and therefore tend to be more considerate and more loyal. A recent TUBB survey also proved that they try harder in bed.
   
   
4. Once with an ugly partner it is unlikely that anyone will try and take them from you meaning you can let yourself go completely once you’re together.
   
   
5. In these straightened times TUBB is cheaper as a) We don’t charge much as the pretty sites and b) Ugly people have lower expectations – for a first date A Family Bucket will usually do the trick.

Los seres:

from clara

Eminenciales. Mostración pública del Uno y Trino, y Josefina

Hydra (con holgura, la mejor editorial argentina de 2010) presentará el primer libro de su Serie Clásicos: Elementos filosóficos. Del ciudadano, trad. y prólogo de Andrés Rosler, Buenos Aires, Hydra, 2010.

El encuentro será coordinado por José Luis Álvarez López (Centro Cultural Rector Ricardo Rojas, U.B.A.) y Sebastián Abad (Hydra Editorial) y tendrá como presentadores al Dr. Jorge Dotti (Profesor Titular de Filosofía Política, U.B.A.) y al Dr. Andrés Rosler (Profesor Titular de Filosofía del Derecho, U.B.A.).

El libro Del ciudadano, como comúnmente se lo conoce, aunque originalmente pensado como parte de una obra mayor, se publica por separado en 1642. El contexto político de aquel momento obligaba a publicarlo antes de lo previsto. Este dato nos advierte que Thomas Hobbes (1588-1679) despliega sus argumentos en el marco de una disputa por la conquista del sentido de términos como «pueblo», «persona» y «libertad» contra el sentido común republicano de la política. El autor expone a lo largo de este texto aquellas categorías de la reflexión política que quedarían para el resto de la historia de la filosofía cargadas de sentido hobbesiano: Estado, soberanía, obligación política y derecho natural.

Del ciudadano se presenta al público traducido y prologado por el Dr. Andrés Rosler, Profesor Titular de la Cátedra de Filosofía del Derecho de la Universidad de Buenos Aires y Doctor en Filosofía por la Universidad de Oxford. Destacado estudioso de la obra de Hobbes, Rosler ha publicado numerosos escritos donde analiza la naturaleza del conflicto político y su relación con el derecho

4 de noviembre 19.30 hs en el Centro Cultural Rojas.

-----------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------

El rector de la Universidad de Buenos Aires, Dr. Rubén Hallu, el decano de la Facultad de Ciencias Sociales, Dr. Sergio Caletti, y el decano de la Facultad de Filosofía y Letras, Dr. Héctor Hugo Trinchero, invitan a la ceremonia de entrega del título de Profesor Honoris Causa de la Universidad de Buenos Aires a la distinguida crítica y docente Josefina Ludmer.

El acto se llevará a cabo el jueves 4 de noviembre a las 19 hs. en Arenales 1371, sede del Rectorado de la UBA. En esa ocasión, Josefina Ludmer dará una conferencia titulada "Lo que viene después".

Como saben, Josefina ejerce sus poderes magistrales en el Birreinato, y ahora se la repatria para los magisteriales (ella estaba en Yale, y después en Sociales, es como el conurbano del pensamiento). Felicitaciones, Josefina!!!

Qué ganas de brindar, y de ver a Dañel... a Ariel... al Uno y Trino... a todas las personas maravillosas cuyas presencias añoro y compongo entre visiones bibliotecarias en Middle America, ardillitas, Winchesters, carrot cakes y corn, en este día de comicios electorales en Iowa.

pd: crucial! Sebastián Freire inaugura Formas de vida!!

One Autumn with Writers

by writer Ian Rosales Casocot, on FB

It's the last Sunday of November. I have been feeling rather down today -- perhaps I am just tired from the previous night's frenzied partying -- that not even a splendid hay ride in a beautiful Iowan farmhouse can mitigate it, and everything to me now seems to run with forbidding shadows. Some things are even hateful in varying degrees. The full capacity of this cafe, for example, when on ordinary days I delight in seeing the constant traffic of interesting faces. And the fact that it's cold outside. There's also my use of the word "mitigate," which I find utterly pretentious, and I hate it. So is my use of the word "utterly." It seems that in this down time, I have learned how to perfectly cannibalize myself with little irritations.

I use a lot of excuses, don't I.

The real reason is the fact that there is something inevitable that stares me at me now: going home. How do you go home after Iowa? After the International Writing Program? But I am, all of us are. We are leaving in barely three weeks, and I don't think I'm ready to go back to my old life just yet. And yet, there are already missives from and of home that are reminders of this inevitability: emails from family and friends, announcements from work, and the constant moans by O Thiam Chin every single day that this is his "last Friday in Iowa City," his "last Saturday in Iowa City," his "last Sunday in Iowa City." I keep mum, always in that posture of denial, but in my head I tell him: "I am counting out my last days, too, and I am sad."

Amilcar is already gone. So is Najwan. You can see how sad most of us are. We try to hide this silly sentimentality, of course, with smiles and small talk and good cheer and drunken parties -- and sometimes, for some of our men here in the IWP, with a slinky black dress or women's lingerie for a Halloween night's excuse to let our hair down. Last night, at the ghoulish gathering at the Merinos', you could feel that pull for camaraderie among many of the writers in the IWP. There was an acknowledgment in the air that we were indeed counting out our days, that we were saying our drawn out goodbyes in whatever form we want them to take, that we were probably not going to see each other again but that we were glad that, for more than two months, we were blessed with their friendships, their capacity for taking us into their lives and making us part of them.

I will miss Ghada's smile, for example, and her constant protests about her cheerfulness. I will miss Pola's wildfire presence, the way she comes into every room and commands everybody's attention. I will miss Touche's playful gravity, and his conviction that he is always the most beautiful person in the room. I will miss Andrea's sudden bouts of laughter, and his mission to photograph himself in every single spot in the United States. I will miss Mr. Kim's quiet and calming presence -- and his totally terrifying Jigsaw Halloween mask. I will miss Edgar and the way he walks around with the security blanket that is his bag. I will miss Coco's quiet air, the way she talks to you like you are the only person in the room. I will miss Solvi's tallness -- and his wig and lingerie. I will miss Christopher's anecdotes, and the animated way he tells them. I will miss Chandrahas' impeccable sartorial sense and his capacity for elegantly working the room. I will miss Milosz's secret rock star wish and his electric guitar. I will miss being a visitor in Marjia's universe, and the way she can belt out every single song in The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I will miss Laura's delightful accent, and her Gabriel. I will miss Turusbek's dancing, and his booming voice. I will miss Billy’s hand gestures when he talks passionately about something. I will miss Farhad's Cambridge accent, and the whiplashing wit he carries around with him like a weapon of mass distraction. I will miss Michael's giggles and his mission to see birds, of all sorts. I will miss Thiam Chin's hyper nature and his pickiness. I will miss Phoenix's gushing about film. I will miss H.M.'s swagger, and his allergy to the afternoon sun. (Or just the sun, period.) I will miss Amilcar's silence, the way his smile seems to just say everything. I will miss Hinemoana's quirkiness and deep soul and Halloweena costume. I will certainly not miss Ismail's milkshake addiction, and his obsessive fascination for Twinkies and bookstores. I will miss Albana's groundedness, the way she makes you feel at ease around her instantly. I will miss everything about David, that darling man.

There are the other writers, of course, all thirty-eight of us, each with a piece of memory of each other. Truth to tell, we only have these scant impressions of each other to work with, because two and a half months are never really enough to know anybody. But it is enough to say that given the little time that we've had, we gave the world to each other -- and made Iowa City in the beautiful autumn of 2010 an impossible place and time to forget in all our lifetimes.

Salamandru

el especial de la poeta bielorrusa Maryia Martysevich para Halloween

Disquisitions pre Halloween

Due to my uncanny resemblance to the American politician, author, speaker, singer, and member of the GOP, Governor of Alaska Sara Louise Palin, I'm considering dressing like her for this Halloween in Iowa, my first all hallows eve in The Land of the Free. I can certainly do the hair, and sport her light glasses and a bright colored 2 piece (perchance a Hockey Mom tee when things get boozy); the rest is, as in politics, entirely debatable as whether I could go for Miss Alaska and win, too. The thing is: not enough. I need a baby prop. I'd like to go as Sarah Palin holding little baby Trig, her down syndrome offspring who comes with her to the political rallies (see below), and it's not easy, as some could have wrongly guessed, to find small baby props featuring down syndrome here in Iowa. Ismail from Nigeria is suggesting Andreas from Indonesia to play my son, and yesterday, I have chased Andreas at the reception at US Bank asking him wherther he would like to be my son (grandson, alas, but I'm not exaggerating accuracy, I'm Palin f'christ sakes). Andreas finds the idea so horrific that it's good. But he hasn't consented to our common genes yet.
A decision needs to be made in the coming hours... oh time, oh witches.

Las teorías italianas

Prossimamente, nella Baldini Castoldi Dalai.

El escritor como forma de vida

La venganza de los nerds

por Pola Oloixarac para Radar

La red social se despliega sobre mitos antiguos. Navega la paradoja de crear una red de amigos, y quedarse solo en el mundo. Es la historia del revolucionario que se enfrenta al poder tradicional (los hermosos machos alfa Winklevoss); es el cliché del niño judío resentido que carga sobre las elites cerradas. Es el pequeño Asperger que se lanza a construir una máquina imparable cuando su novia lo deja, en la primera de muchas escenas geniales (“Vas a ir por el mundo creyendo que las chicas no te quieren porque sos un nerd. Pero en realidad, va a ser porque sos un imbécil”). Y es la novela rosa de la filosofía de negocios norteamericana, contada con diferentes personajes, lugares, momentos. Y una estudiantina cruzada con el nuevo género de la narrativa empresarial (la deriva del arte en la época de la reproductibilidad capital: las creaciones son empresas). Con ritmo adictivo y diálogos brillantes, David Fincher y Aaron Sorkin crearon un nuevo clásico juvenil, con una inteligencia que recuerda a la dupla clásica de Joseph Mankiewicz y Ben Hecht.

La red social también cuenta cómo la historia del rock (su estirpe reventadora de hoteles y paradigmas) devino en la era de las empresas startup (ahora se revientan los servers, los sites...). La red social recrea el cuento dorado de la cultura garajera del software. El mito sagrado que inicia la travesía hacia la conquista de Silicon Valley cuenta entre sus bestias evangelistas a Steve Jobs, Bill Gates y los Google Boys programando como monjes en sus cobertizos californianos, hasta darse cuenta de que tenían billones potenciales entre manos. Esta vez el encierro primigenio se encuentra injertado dentro del ambiente ultra tradicional de Harvard. Es la historia de un chico que, con menos de mil dólares, crea un código –y su sucedáneo en la era del capital: una compañía–. Es como cuando las bandas empezaban a sonar en reductos underground que sólo los connoisseurs sabían olfatear; ahí entra Sean Parker (interpretado por un exacto Justin Timberlake), que funciona como un manager que descubre a un artista y lo conecta con las discográficas que quieren invertir en él (la breve impasse de Peter Thiel, temprano inversor, como si fuera Virgin en sus días de gloria). De hecho, Parker (fundador de Naspter) se cuenta entre los capitanes digitales de los que desbancaron a las grandes discográficas. Como cuando entran los managers, ocurren cambios en la banda original; pero no necesariamente porque “se venda al sistema”: el sistema es lo que se crea (las drogas se siguen consumiendo sobre la piel de las chicas).

La red social (siempre hablamos de la película y el modelo) consolida al héroe nerd que se emancipa de los papeles secundarios, como si el arco épico comenzado en La venganza de los nerds culminara en el estupendo Zuckerberg de Jesse Eisenberg hablando rápido, escupiendo bits de palabras, enfrascado en la pantalla, aislado, “wired” (conectado). La filmografía de las estudiantinas norteamericanas –el estudio antropológico más extenso sobre la tribu nerd– muestra el ascenso de los nerds en la carrera darwinista. Su paso de minoría oprimida a clase dominante culmina triunfal con la controversia que pone en escena la red social; desde el punto de vista de las comedias de estudiantes, el año 1986 corresponde a la Primavera de los Pueblos. Desde La venganza de los nerds a Karate Kid, los años formatorios del cine pop corn de los ‘80 establecieron un relato épico de la lucha de clases inscripto en el aula: el nerd, el animal omega, de pronto triunfaba sobre los machos alfa. Los hermosos gemelos Winklevoss esperaban alquilar el cerebro de Zuckerberg para que les hiciera un site donde capitalizar sexualmente el status de Harvard en un site de citas. El joven Zuckerberg accede (lo hace para hacer repuntar su reputación después de convertirse en el nerd más odiado del campus), pero demora fatalmente el lanzamiento del site de los gemelos, y crea el código para lanzar su propia idea. La técnica se imponía sobre los privilegios del nacimiento y la clase.

La red social combina lo más augusto y competitivo de ambos mundos: la figura del rebelde revolucionario con el vector inhumano -mitad computadora, mitad niño- de la competencia absoluta permitida por el paradigma de la innovación. Después de todo, las traiciones entre aliados forjaron la innovación tecnológica que habita ubicua nuestros hogares, a la que hace rato hemos invitado a quedarse: Bill Gates tomó la idea del software con ventanas de Steve Jobs, que a su vez la había tomado prestada de Xerox, y Steve Jobs estafó a su primer socio, Steve Wozniak, vendiéndole una parte 7 veces menor. La parábola del Zuckerberg Judas lo suma a la serie áulica y cristaliza su liderazgo. Porque el paradigma de la innovación en la era del capital no es sino el avance del todo vale sobre la tradición y las ideas públicas o privadas para crear “un imperio sin límites”, para traer una frase de la Eneida que a Zuckerberg le gusta citar en las reuniones con sus jefes de producto en sus oficinas de Palo Alto.

La red social está llena de detalles deliciosos, de personajes que se delinean a partir de bombachas con insignias Ivy League, a Zuckerberg llamando “Winklevi” a los gemelos, porque le gusta el latín y sería la manera correcta de adjudicarles el plural. Uno de los aciertos es que nunca se trata de la inocencia del nerd atrapado por la ambición del dinero (no es Wall Street 2.0), y que el drama permite a todos contar su parte; como todo en la red social, lo que está en juego es un juicio sobre una persona (en este caso, el creador del site). El juicio es injusto: los hermanos no merecen más que un par de cientos de dólares (no se patenta una “idea”, sino una tecnología), y lo que queda en liza es un desafío al paradigma creativo de la colaboración: qué ocurre cuando las ideas se desarrollan dentro de una red (social), y pasan de su forma idílica a la fase más idílica de negocios rentables. Otras películas sobre el tema (Startup.com, Pirates of Silicon Valley) no llegan a ser bocetos del tratamiento de artista que Fincher y Sorkin le dan a este mundo.

Lo que está en juego es, como en el arte, la habilidad de leer, de esculpir la forma del Zeitgeist contemporáneo: no es una obra, sino una plataforma que invitara a la ansiedad, la agresión controlada y la búsqueda de afecto ficticio. La primera acción es hacer caer el servidor de Harvard, a través de un aparatito misógino que permite hacer rankings de chicas. Toda la oscuridad de Facebook está en ese nacimiento violento; sin esa matriz de resentimiento, ansiedad, tic facial, no existiría Facebook.

Casa América Catalunya, con Marta Aponte Alsina

Miércoles 20

12hs. Charla en la Universitat de Girona
Comida en Girona

Mesa 18,15h - La reflexión literaria. CONVERSAN: Marta Aponte Alsina (Puerto Rico) y Pola Oloixarac (Argentina) MODERA: Diego Salazar (Lima/ Madrid)

Casa Amèrica Catalunya. C/ Còrsega 299 (entresuelo). Barcelona 08008
Teléfono: (+34) 93 2380661

(images disabled due to blogger maintenance!)

@Barcelona -Fet a America

Conferència de premsa de presentació de Fet a Amèrica a la seu de Casa Amèrica Catalunya, només hores abans de començar l’esdeveniment, organitzat per la nostra fundació, en col·laboració amb el Col·lectiu Fu i l’Associació Fringe. Aquesta trobada es celebrarà entre el 18 i el 24 d’octubre com festival internacional de novel·la contemporània en llengua castellana, hereu del Fet a Mèxic (2007). Aplega a Barcelona quinze autors llatinoamericans que, en la seva majoria, son inèdits o poc coneguts a Espanya.

Un dels objectius del festival consisteix en constatar que la narrativa llatinoamericana de qualitat va més enllà de l’obra publicada aquí. Fet a Amèrica contempla taules rodona, trobades amb professors i estudiants, reunions amb lectors i una cita a Menorca amb clubs de lectura (veure els dossiers del festival en altres apartats del nostre web).

A la conferència de premsa s’hi trobaven presents la immensa majoria dels autors que protagonitzaran les jornades, així com els seus organitzadors. En primer lloc, prengué la paraula Marta Nin, adjunta a la direcció general de Casa Amèrica Catalunya, en qualitat d’amfitriona del festival, qui donà la benvinguda als escriptors i situà l’origen de la iniciativa “en l’èxit de Fet a Mèxic, malgrat l’enorme feinada que generà aquella experiència. El nostre equip va decidir fatigar-s’hi encara més i extrapolà la idea d’un país a tot el continent. L’esperit americanista de la nostra Casa consisteix en recolzar aquesta mena d’iniciatives i convertir-les en realitat”.

Una de les organitzadores externes de l’esdeveniment i membre del Col·lectiu virtual Fu, Fernanda Álvarez, situà la inquietud pel Fet a Amèrica naixent fa cosa d’un any “quan ens preguntarem quina literatura s’estaria fent a l’Amèrica Llatina fora dels circuits comercials. Férem una investigació entre amics, llibreters i editors. Aconseguirem recolzament d’algunes editorials i després d’emmagatzemar 215 autors de 21 països, escollirem 19 amb les que vam muntar el programa. També, vam voler treure’l de Barcelona, pel que vam aconseguir complicitats a Olot, Mataró, Girona i Menorca. Cerquem arribar a estudiants, professors i lectors en general. També, posar en contacte als propis escriptors, perquè coneguin millor les seves veus i pensaments literaris. Gràcies a Barataria, hem editat un excel·lent treball de Paz Balmaceda en el que aplega les converses entre ells, trencadores de fronteres de tot tipus, diàlegs intergeneracionals de diferents escriptors amb diverses influències i diversos processos de creació”.

Lolita Bosch, una altra de les inspiradores del procés, participà a la selecció d’autors i l’empenta a Fet a Amèrica després de constatar que “Fet a Mèxic havia nascut de l’amor i la rebel·lió davant la situació d’un país i resulta un èxit inesperat. Estic convençuda que la lectura val molt a les persones i aquesta creença queda palesa encara més a l’Amèrica Llatina. Allà, un llibre és capaç de transformar la vida d’una persona. Per això, estem immersos en projectes com la donació de llibres per a la presó de Tramacúa a Colòmbia – en la que també hi col·labora Casa Amèrica Catalunya- o una altra idea inspirada en la força i honestedat de la periodista mexicana Lydia Cacho. Volem fet coses que serveixin, que siguin reials i tangibles. Ser lector és una sort i un privilegi, uneix als demés. Busquem fer quelcom per la societat a través de la literatura, aquest és el nostre objectiu”.

Fet a Amèrica’ arribarà via Internet a Mèxic, Perú, Colòmbia, Xile i diverses universitats dels Estats Units que s’han interessat pel seu programa d’activitats.

When the miners were underground

from underground to mainstream