So....end of the year....let's start the pa~~~~rty!!!!!!!!
Click here!
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Why did I cry over one there's no need to cry for?
To finish the year, a very nice song, so we all can start the new year with a smile
That girl has an amazing voice....
Happy New Year 2010!!!!
That girl has an amazing voice....
Happy New Year 2010!!!!
Bolshoi, スゴ〜〜〜い!!!!
Yesterday night I went to the ballet at the Teatre Victoria in Parallel. The Bolshoi was in town! I must confess I'm not a great fan of ballet, nor that I know much about it, though I've heard a great deal of its music since most of the most important ballets are Russian, and I really love Russian music, specially this from the beginning of the XX century.
I was totally and absolutely impressed! My beloved Ch., who loves ballet and was the main reason why I went there, was jumping in the seat with emotion while watching it. She said that they were amazing, the best she had seen so far. I was mostly astonished by some of the modern coreographies, since I still can't get much into the most classic ones, with those guys dressed like prices in manga stories, with ribbons and blouses.
Among the collection of pieces of different ballets they showed, I heard one that was very easy to recognize, Spartacus. Despite they performed a different scene, I prefer the adagio in Spartacus, where the slave dances with his wife Phrygia, in the woods, while fleeing from the Roman legions of Crassus. Watching and listening to Khachaturian performed by the Bolshoi is kind of listening to the Bible recited by God itself, I guess: the very same source of it all!
Ballet has a more icy sister, I mean, figure skating, of which Ch. is also a great fan. Her favorite is Mao Asada (真央浅田), but I prefer Kim Yu-Na, the Earth angle that is flying among the notes of Scheherezade. As known, Scheherezade was delaying her execution due to her infidelity by telling one thousand and one stories to her husband in the Arabian nights. This blog is kind of the same thing. Hope being as entertaining!
I was totally and absolutely impressed! My beloved Ch., who loves ballet and was the main reason why I went there, was jumping in the seat with emotion while watching it. She said that they were amazing, the best she had seen so far. I was mostly astonished by some of the modern coreographies, since I still can't get much into the most classic ones, with those guys dressed like prices in manga stories, with ribbons and blouses.
Among the collection of pieces of different ballets they showed, I heard one that was very easy to recognize, Spartacus. Despite they performed a different scene, I prefer the adagio in Spartacus, where the slave dances with his wife Phrygia, in the woods, while fleeing from the Roman legions of Crassus. Watching and listening to Khachaturian performed by the Bolshoi is kind of listening to the Bible recited by God itself, I guess: the very same source of it all!
Ballet has a more icy sister, I mean, figure skating, of which Ch. is also a great fan. Her favorite is Mao Asada (真央浅田), but I prefer Kim Yu-Na, the Earth angle that is flying among the notes of Scheherezade. As known, Scheherezade was delaying her execution due to her infidelity by telling one thousand and one stories to her husband in the Arabian nights. This blog is kind of the same thing. Hope being as entertaining!
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Life is Chaos, Love is Cosmos
Yesterday evening, I witnessed in front of my very eyes how an old English lady's purse was stolen while she was trying to get on the train at Sants Station. The guy was supposedly trying to help her to get on the train with all her luggage but he swiftly slid a hand into her bag. She only noticed it once on the train, and that was too late.
I tried to help the old English lady yesterday. They were two old married couples with no command in any language but English. She was about to cry, her hands were shaking, and her face looked totally shocked. Besides, the guy who was trying to help her describing the pickpocket to the train official was making a pretty poor translation of the thief's features. British accent is kind of tricky sometimes.
Later, I met this professor at University whom I'm collaborating with. He has a new PhD student and we had to talk about some worthwhile ideas to develop in his doctoral thesis. The new student is from Egypt and has just arrived in my city with his wife, who is also pursuing another PhD. Not that surprisingly, he was also stolen his laptop before going through the arrival gate at BCN airport. He said that this was no good signal, but I think he should take it as a new beginning, without looking behind.
Before I could get home without having been myself stolen, though, I had to dodge a guy in the middle of the highway who had crashed his car against the dividing barrier. It was a rainy and darker than a wolf's throat evening, yesterday's. Hopefully, at home, my beloved Ch. was waiting for me, as sweet as ever. She had been crying; this I could tell from her eyes. I comfort her in the best way I know, until she could smile again, and then we had a very pleasant night.
Life is most of times on the verge of being dramatically catastrophic, which I can assure from my own experience. So, what really matters at the end of the day? To me, getting an absolutely true, unselfish, and loving embrace. Nothing else, nothing less. The rest, just sterile pastime and scum.
I tried to help the old English lady yesterday. They were two old married couples with no command in any language but English. She was about to cry, her hands were shaking, and her face looked totally shocked. Besides, the guy who was trying to help her describing the pickpocket to the train official was making a pretty poor translation of the thief's features. British accent is kind of tricky sometimes.
Later, I met this professor at University whom I'm collaborating with. He has a new PhD student and we had to talk about some worthwhile ideas to develop in his doctoral thesis. The new student is from Egypt and has just arrived in my city with his wife, who is also pursuing another PhD. Not that surprisingly, he was also stolen his laptop before going through the arrival gate at BCN airport. He said that this was no good signal, but I think he should take it as a new beginning, without looking behind.
Before I could get home without having been myself stolen, though, I had to dodge a guy in the middle of the highway who had crashed his car against the dividing barrier. It was a rainy and darker than a wolf's throat evening, yesterday's. Hopefully, at home, my beloved Ch. was waiting for me, as sweet as ever. She had been crying; this I could tell from her eyes. I comfort her in the best way I know, until she could smile again, and then we had a very pleasant night.
Life is most of times on the verge of being dramatically catastrophic, which I can assure from my own experience. So, what really matters at the end of the day? To me, getting an absolutely true, unselfish, and loving embrace. Nothing else, nothing less. The rest, just sterile pastime and scum.
Now Fuck Off and Die; You Fucked Up Slag
These two scenes are great. Clive Owen, I bow to you!
Because I'm a fucking caveman!!
That's the spirit. Thank you. Thank you for your honesty.
Now fuck off and die - you fucked up slag.
I'm just not big enough to forgive you...bastard.
Because I'm a fucking caveman!!
That's the spirit. Thank you. Thank you for your honesty.
Now fuck off and die - you fucked up slag.
I'm just not big enough to forgive you...bastard.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
And yet, Human Communication is...
So, to you, language is more than just a means of communication?
Oh, of course it is, of course it is, of course it is, of course it is. Language is my mother, my father, my husband, my brother, my sister, my whore, my mistress, my checkout-girl. Language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing-square or handy freshen-up wipette. Language is the breath of God. Language is the dew on a fresh apple; it's the soft rain of dust that falls into a shaft of morning light as you pluck from an old bookshelf a half-forgotten book of erotic memoirs. Language is the creak on a stair; it's a spluttering match held to a frosted pane; it's a half-remembered childhood birthday-party; it's the warm, wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy; the hulk of a charred Panzer; the underside of a granite boulder; the first downy growth on the upper-lip of a Mediterranean girl. It's cobwebs long since overrun by an old Wellington boot.
Nite, nite...
Oh, of course it is, of course it is, of course it is, of course it is. Language is my mother, my father, my husband, my brother, my sister, my whore, my mistress, my checkout-girl. Language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing-square or handy freshen-up wipette. Language is the breath of God. Language is the dew on a fresh apple; it's the soft rain of dust that falls into a shaft of morning light as you pluck from an old bookshelf a half-forgotten book of erotic memoirs. Language is the creak on a stair; it's a spluttering match held to a frosted pane; it's a half-remembered childhood birthday-party; it's the warm, wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy; the hulk of a charred Panzer; the underside of a granite boulder; the first downy growth on the upper-lip of a Mediterranean girl. It's cobwebs long since overrun by an old Wellington boot.
Nite, nite...
Police and Trials...Funny World
Police...
Trials...
I have a friend, a very good friend, who is a police and works at a Justice Court. Here, he can be seen pushing an attacker away from a murder.
When he was young, we all said he resembled Huge Laurie in Blackadder.
As he always says, if ever in a trial, plea you don't know anything nor anybody, and that you were drunk and under the influence of drugs. Otherwise, that could be the punishment!
Trials...
I have a friend, a very good friend, who is a police and works at a Justice Court. Here, he can be seen pushing an attacker away from a murder.
When he was young, we all said he resembled Huge Laurie in Blackadder.
As he always says, if ever in a trial, plea you don't know anything nor anybody, and that you were drunk and under the influence of drugs. Otherwise, that could be the punishment!
Monday, December 28, 2009
Baggy Trousers or Arabian Nights in Barcelona
E. didn't know much, she said, but wanted to learn a lot, and faster. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, and she did it very much. She thought she had good communication skills, but missed the basic rule: imagine yourself on the other's point of view. She just wanted to make her point, being different; in some way, defiant.
So, she bought some baggy trousers in a weird and dark shop in Gracia, with an odour of Arabian Nights mixed with smoke of new-age incense. Her mother had some prejudices towards Islam, resulting perhaps to her long exposure to such culture or, probably, due to her lack of any exposure at all. She would become scared to listening any Muslim music, like if it was a curse Allah was casting upon her.
E. bought such baggy trousers like unconsciously stating to her mother, "hey, mom, I wear a piece of Islam between my legs!" What a brave girl she was, she probably thought. Besides, that would raise her status as an experienced explorer among her friends, another notch she could brag about after her safari in Barcelona. Experiencing foreign cultures was part of the curricula, as dressing local costumes, eating local gastronomy or practicing dances and mating rituals.
The funny thing, though, is that such trousers were not, not even by far, Arab, Islamic, nor Muslims, but Indian, from India. The shop appeared not to be so alternative as expected and was just another branch of a chain, selling the same kind of clothes that can be found everywhere in the neighborhood. Being alternative has nowadays become mainstream, and there are many kinds of disguises for those who want to taste a pinch of exoticism in BarcelonAventura!!
Anyway, let's freak E.'s mom out a little with this music, a version of Springsteen's Worlds Apart played by a Syrian orchestra and sung in Catalan by Maria del Mar Bonet, the beautiful Majorcan singer, of deep and dark eyes and hair. What a nice mixture of flavors!
"Acompanyen els estels el camí que hem inventat
El teu cor amb el meu cor, per damunt dels mons apart"
"The starts go along the path we have invented
Your heart with my heart, above such worlds apart"
I used to listen to this song in Japan, out loud in my car while coming back from work, just to scare that kind of people and also to feel the salty taste of the Mediterranean in my mouth, the same taste one experiences when swimming in her or while eating fresh clams at El Serrallo in Tarragona.
So, she bought some baggy trousers in a weird and dark shop in Gracia, with an odour of Arabian Nights mixed with smoke of new-age incense. Her mother had some prejudices towards Islam, resulting perhaps to her long exposure to such culture or, probably, due to her lack of any exposure at all. She would become scared to listening any Muslim music, like if it was a curse Allah was casting upon her.
E. bought such baggy trousers like unconsciously stating to her mother, "hey, mom, I wear a piece of Islam between my legs!" What a brave girl she was, she probably thought. Besides, that would raise her status as an experienced explorer among her friends, another notch she could brag about after her safari in Barcelona. Experiencing foreign cultures was part of the curricula, as dressing local costumes, eating local gastronomy or practicing dances and mating rituals.
The funny thing, though, is that such trousers were not, not even by far, Arab, Islamic, nor Muslims, but Indian, from India. The shop appeared not to be so alternative as expected and was just another branch of a chain, selling the same kind of clothes that can be found everywhere in the neighborhood. Being alternative has nowadays become mainstream, and there are many kinds of disguises for those who want to taste a pinch of exoticism in BarcelonAventura!!
Anyway, let's freak E.'s mom out a little with this music, a version of Springsteen's Worlds Apart played by a Syrian orchestra and sung in Catalan by Maria del Mar Bonet, the beautiful Majorcan singer, of deep and dark eyes and hair. What a nice mixture of flavors!
"Acompanyen els estels el camí que hem inventat
El teu cor amb el meu cor, per damunt dels mons apart"
"The starts go along the path we have invented
Your heart with my heart, above such worlds apart"
I used to listen to this song in Japan, out loud in my car while coming back from work, just to scare that kind of people and also to feel the salty taste of the Mediterranean in my mouth, the same taste one experiences when swimming in her or while eating fresh clams at El Serrallo in Tarragona.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
The Name of a Rose....
Stat rosa pristina nomine, nomina nuda tenemus
Yesterday's rose endures in its name, we hold empty names.
and Adso regretted:
"...I never knew, nor ever learned, her name."
nor ever asked my name...
Yesterday's rose endures in its name, we hold empty names.
and Adso regretted:
"...I never knew, nor ever learned, her name."
nor ever asked my name...
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Day of Warth, Day of Mourning....
Day of wrath! O day of mourning!
See fulfilled the prophets' warning,
Heaven and earth in ashes burning!
Confutatis maledictis,
Flammis acribus addictis:
Voca me cum benedictis.
While the wicked are confounded,
doomed to flames of woe unbounded
call me with thy saints surrounded.
See fulfilled the prophets' warning,
Heaven and earth in ashes burning!
Confutatis maledictis,
Flammis acribus addictis:
Voca me cum benedictis.
While the wicked are confounded,
doomed to flames of woe unbounded
call me with thy saints surrounded.
Revenge, the Pleasure of the Wise
La vendetta, oh, la vendetta
È un piacer serbato ai saggi;
L’obliar l’onte, gli oltraggi,
È bassezza, è ognor viltà.
Coll'astuzia, coll’arguzia
Col giudizio, col criterio
Si potrebbe ... Il fatto è serio:
Ma, credete, si farà.
Se tutto il codice devessi volgere.
Se tutto l'indice dovessi leggere
Con un equivoco, con un sinonimo
Qualche garbuglio si troverà.
Tutta Siviglia conosce Bartolo:
Il birbo Figaro vostro sarà!
Monday, December 21, 2009
Bon Nadal i Bones Festes!
Merry Christmas and a Happy 2010!
Però, sobretot, hi ha d'haver-hi, hi ha d'haver-hi un caganer!
Però, sobretot, hi ha d'haver-hi, hi ha d'haver-hi un caganer!
No us en oblideu mai més!
En un Pessebre, hi ha d'haver-hi un caganer.
ps: some explanations, by Stephen Fry
Però, sobretot, hi ha d'haver-hi, hi ha d'haver-hi un caganer!
Però, sobretot, hi ha d'haver-hi, hi ha d'haver-hi un caganer!
No us en oblideu mai més!
En un Pessebre, hi ha d'haver-hi un caganer.
ps: some explanations, by Stephen Fry
Monday, November 16, 2009
Lives of Others, Lies of Others
I had already seen that movie, but i saw it again on Saturday night. Das Leben der Anderen, the lives of others. What is all about? Well, spying on people, discovering their big and little lies and flaws, and using them on our own behalf.
Apparently, Georg is an immaculate theater writer, and Christa, his muse. But Huptmann Gerd Wiesler is suspicious of him, too a perfect existence. Nevertheless, Gerd is also too naive and fanatic to get to see that by telling such a suspicion to his boss, clever and eager for power Oberstleutnant Anton Grubitz, he puts in movement a huge Ferris wheel of deceives, lies, and betrayals. The Culture Minister gets to know it, seeing the opportunity to get rid of Georg and, this way, getting pretty Christa just for him, as it has always been his desire.
As cynically stated in the movie, actions of men and women are easy predicted and can be categorized according to several character features and traits. This way, they can be manipulated at will and driven them through the ways we desire. The only condition, as Stasi knew, is to discover our flaws, and used them accordingly.
Christa's flaw was her love to her art, that is, her self-center existence, devoted to her own desires and wishes, to the point of becoming a double prostitute and a traitor. Georg's flaw is his love to his own truth and hedonism, a product of his naivety and cowardice, which also prostituted his art and friendship relations up to witness the suicide of his beloved friend Jerskas. On the other side of this classic triangle, the hidden side, the one that listens and manipulates the reality, making them behave as in a stage, there is Gerd, also a flawed piece of work.
His life is as empty and opaque as the ugly furniture in his empty apartment or the gray clothes he wears. He distrusts intellectuals, specially, happy ones, and stages a full-scale trap to catch that prey, for his own entertainment. But, at some point, he strangely discovers he hates his superiors, Anton and the Minister, even more than happy people, since they have also betrayed him, his ideals and, as a result, his own whole life. As a consequence, he desires to revenge and that's why he machinates, as if he was now a theater director, a new truth, in the same way his colleagues at Stasi routinely do. What's the truth, after all, just what others believe of us, and this can easily be changed.
Gerd decides to save Georg. Why? To save himself. And Georg does redeem him in his book. That is what people usually do, lying, betraying, deceiving, just to try to save themselves. However, what is most astonishing to me is that despite any life can be manipulated with lies, the most powerful way to do this is by telling the naked truth to the right people. Georg told it in his article to Western Europe; Christa, to the Stasi, and Gerd, by hidding it, to his boss.
It seems that truths and lies exercise similar results on humans, like if they were not that far apart from each other.
Apparently, Georg is an immaculate theater writer, and Christa, his muse. But Huptmann Gerd Wiesler is suspicious of him, too a perfect existence. Nevertheless, Gerd is also too naive and fanatic to get to see that by telling such a suspicion to his boss, clever and eager for power Oberstleutnant Anton Grubitz, he puts in movement a huge Ferris wheel of deceives, lies, and betrayals. The Culture Minister gets to know it, seeing the opportunity to get rid of Georg and, this way, getting pretty Christa just for him, as it has always been his desire.
As cynically stated in the movie, actions of men and women are easy predicted and can be categorized according to several character features and traits. This way, they can be manipulated at will and driven them through the ways we desire. The only condition, as Stasi knew, is to discover our flaws, and used them accordingly.
Christa's flaw was her love to her art, that is, her self-center existence, devoted to her own desires and wishes, to the point of becoming a double prostitute and a traitor. Georg's flaw is his love to his own truth and hedonism, a product of his naivety and cowardice, which also prostituted his art and friendship relations up to witness the suicide of his beloved friend Jerskas. On the other side of this classic triangle, the hidden side, the one that listens and manipulates the reality, making them behave as in a stage, there is Gerd, also a flawed piece of work.
His life is as empty and opaque as the ugly furniture in his empty apartment or the gray clothes he wears. He distrusts intellectuals, specially, happy ones, and stages a full-scale trap to catch that prey, for his own entertainment. But, at some point, he strangely discovers he hates his superiors, Anton and the Minister, even more than happy people, since they have also betrayed him, his ideals and, as a result, his own whole life. As a consequence, he desires to revenge and that's why he machinates, as if he was now a theater director, a new truth, in the same way his colleagues at Stasi routinely do. What's the truth, after all, just what others believe of us, and this can easily be changed.
Gerd decides to save Georg. Why? To save himself. And Georg does redeem him in his book. That is what people usually do, lying, betraying, deceiving, just to try to save themselves. However, what is most astonishing to me is that despite any life can be manipulated with lies, the most powerful way to do this is by telling the naked truth to the right people. Georg told it in his article to Western Europe; Christa, to the Stasi, and Gerd, by hidding it, to his boss.
It seems that truths and lies exercise similar results on humans, like if they were not that far apart from each other.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Ich plauderte und plauderte, – und das war schlecht!
I was mumbling this old song all my way up to work this morning,
Seit ich gekostet diesen Wein –
Seit ich das schöne Weibchen sah –
So brennts im Herzenskämmerlein,
So zwickt es hier, so zwickt es da.
Papagena! Herzenstäubchen!
Papagena! liebes Weibchen!
I'm definitely a weird guy, I sing in German Mozart's Operas. Well, only Papageno's parts in Die Zauber Flüte, the drunk and lazy bird hunter who is in desperate love with Papagena, the cutest bird. He wants to hang himself since he can't find her, and counts down,
Eins!
Zwei!
Zwei ist schon vorbei!
Drei!
Nun wohlan, es bleibt dabei,
Weil mich nichts zurücke hält!
Gute Nacht, du falsche Welt!
(Good night, you, false world!)
But the three cherubs stop him to do it by saying,
Man lebt nur einmal, dies sei dir genug.
(A man lives only once, and this is enough for him)
and tell him to use his Glockenspiel, and Papagena appears in the most lovely and funny duet ever,
However, not even singing opera in German can be compared in difficulty to understand a Papagena.
Seit ich gekostet diesen Wein –
Seit ich das schöne Weibchen sah –
So brennts im Herzenskämmerlein,
So zwickt es hier, so zwickt es da.
Papagena! Herzenstäubchen!
Papagena! liebes Weibchen!
I'm definitely a weird guy, I sing in German Mozart's Operas. Well, only Papageno's parts in Die Zauber Flüte, the drunk and lazy bird hunter who is in desperate love with Papagena, the cutest bird. He wants to hang himself since he can't find her, and counts down,
Eins!
Zwei!
Zwei ist schon vorbei!
Drei!
Nun wohlan, es bleibt dabei,
Weil mich nichts zurücke hält!
Gute Nacht, du falsche Welt!
(Good night, you, false world!)
But the three cherubs stop him to do it by saying,
Man lebt nur einmal, dies sei dir genug.
(A man lives only once, and this is enough for him)
and tell him to use his Glockenspiel, and Papagena appears in the most lovely and funny duet ever,
However, not even singing opera in German can be compared in difficulty to understand a Papagena.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Being on the Papers or I Know that Guy!
I am very happy today! As every morning, I've read "La Contra" de la Vanguardia, a very sui generis interview at the back of that well known newspaper from Barcelona. And look, what a surprise! I personally know this guy! He helped my when I was writing my Ms. thesis, and we worked in the same project while he was pursuing his PhD and I had just started mine. Last time I met him was in Tarragona last September. He is a great guy!
I am very happy today!
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"Llaves y tarjetas de crédito acabarán pronto en el museo"
I am very happy today!
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"Llaves y tarjetas de crédito acabarán pronto en el museo"
VÍCTOR-M. AMELA - 28/10/2009
Tengo 42 años. Nací en Barcelona y vivo en Tarragona. Soy profesor de Ingeniería Informática en la Universitat Rovira i Virgili, especialista en biometría. Estoy casado y tengo dos hijos, de 6 y 8 años. Soy catalanista. Soy ateo. Eres único en huella dactilar y palmar, iris, retina...
Soy único? Único. Y es algo que puede medirse: eso es la biometría.
Midamos, pues.
Vea sus huellas dactilares: no las hay iguales en el planeta.
¿Seguro?
La probabilidad de que otro ser humano tenga estas mismas huellas dactilares es de 10-18 (0,0000000000000000001%).
Casi igual a cero, vamos.
Si la población humana es hoy de 6.000 millones de personas, ¡deberíamos multiplicarla por cien para dar con otras huellas digitales iguales! Pero como la Tierra no puede sostener a más de 12.000 millones de personas..., esté tranquilo: es único en ese rasgo.
¿En qué otros rasgos soy único?
En el iris. En la retina. En la red venosa palmar. En la geometría de la mano o de la oreja. En las huellas podales. En la fisionomía del rostro. En la antropometría. En el ADN, presente en sangre, semen, orina, sudor, lágrimas, piel, bulbos de cabellos...
Vamos por partes: iris...
En el aeropuerto de Amsterdam usan ya pasaportes por iris: una máquina te lee el iris, y pasas directo. ¡Más seguro que un policía!
¿No hay dos iris iguales?
No. Pero si remotamente un iris pudiera falsificarse, hay algo imposible de falsificar: la retina, con su compleja red vascular, distinta en cada persona e invisible a simple vista (está detrás de la pupila). Existen detectores para leerla, y se usan en algunos sitios.
¿Gracias a los ordenadores?
La informática y los ordenadores permiten encontrar a quién corresponde una huella dactilar entre millones de huellas de un banco de datos ¡en sólo dos segundos!
¿Se hace aquí?
Los Mossos d´Esquadra, en dos segundos, encuentran la huella más parecida a la que analizan entre las que tienen fichadas. Si quieren buscar entre las fichadas por los DNI - protegidas-,deben pedir permiso al juez.
¿Qué rasgo biométrico es más seguro?
La red vascular palmar - venitas de la palma de la mano-es única e irreproducible. Se usa ya para acceder a centros militares, centrales nucleares...
¿Y si un terrorista corta una de esas manos, y la usa para entrar?
Los lectores de iris, dedos o manos detectan temperatura y micropulsaciones para evitar esa trampa. Un órgano muerto no vale.
¿Se usa la biometría ya para accesos?
Yo accedo a mi ordenador personal o a mi móvil sin contraseñas, sólo con mi huella dactilar: es más seguro y práctico. ¡No necesito memorizar claves! Pronto todos los accesos serán así.
¿Cuándo?
Hoy cargamos en los bolsillos llaves de casa, del garaje, del coche, del armario, de la caja fuerte, tarjetas bancarias... ¡Nuestros nietos las verán sólo expuestas en museos!
¿Sí? ¿Y cómo entraremos en casa, cómo sacaremos dinero?
Con nuestro cuerpo. Tu cuerpo dirá quién eres. Dedo, ojo, cara... Todo eso puede medirse y leerse cibernéticamente. Los antiguos egipcios ya usaron rasgos físicos para identificar a obreros de las pirámides (un corte en una oreja, señales...) y evitar que uno cobrase dos veces: ¡prehistoria de biometría a ojo desnudo! Hoy, la inteligencia artificial permite hasta descifrar movimientos y comportamientos.
¿A qué se refiere?
Por el modo de teclear podemos saber quién ha tocado un ordenador. Otro ejemplo: si estás nervioso por algo, te mueves de cierta manera. Si cargas una mochila con bomba, también. En aeropuertos ya hay detectores de estas conductas motrices: activan alarmas para interceptar a esa persona sospechosa e investigarla.
Las máquinas acabarán sabiendo lo que pensamos...
Eso no puede medirse. Y ya se desechó aquella tesis frenológica del siglo XIX que postulaba que la forma de tu cráneo delataba si eras violento o criminal...
Me citaba antes la antropometría...
Nuestras proporciones corporales han determinado altura de mesas, sillas, cocinas, puertas, asientos de coche, tallas de ropa... Le Corbusier estableció una antropometría de uso para arquitectos que sigue vigente…, aunque algunas medidas han cambiado.
¿Cuáles?
Los holandeses son hoy las personas, en promedio, más altas del mundo. O sea, los que hoy más sufren en los asientos de los aviones, de dimensiones anticuadas... ¡Deberían rediseñarse! Los españoles somos hoy 14 centímetros más altos que hace un siglo. Los norteamericanos son los más obesos del mundo..., ¡seguidos de los españoles!
¿Las tallas de ropa y calzado responden a esos patrones corporales?
Sí, por eso varían por continentes. La catalogación antropométrica empezó en la Francia del siglo XIX, cuando su policía creó fichas consignando color de ojos, tipos de nariz (establecieron seis tipos), orejas...: se simplificaba la descripción de sospechosos.
Hasta llegar a los análisis de ADN...
El definitivo carnet de identidad de cada uno... si no hacemos clones de personas.
¿Se usará todo esto para tenernos fichados y controlados?
Para reforzar la seguridad de las personas... o para discriminarnos según la predisposición a tener patologías. Eso pasa con cualquier nueva tecnología: puede usarse bien o mal, y yo creo que esta la usaremos bien.
"Llaves y tarjetas de crédito acabarán pronto en el museo"
´Ets únic?´
Antes del 11-S del año 2001, los ingresos de las empresas dedicadas a la biometría eran de 400 millones de dólares anuales. Ocho años después, en este 2009, ascenderán a ¡5.000 millones de dólares! (entre software, hardware, mantenimiento...). Me lo explica Francesc Serratosa mientras paseamos entre los paneles de Ets únic?,didáctica exposición sobre biometría en la sede de la Obra Social Caixa Sabadell (etsunic.cat), que hoy se inaugura. Muestra de modo práctico y ameno la historia y últimos avances en el campo de la biometría - de la mano de los recursos de la ingeniería informática-,que cada día estará más presente en nuestra vida cotidiana..., confiemos en que para bien.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Darwin: 3, Jackass: 0
Yesterday it rained a lot, and, not to my surprise, this rain led to proof once more that Darwin was right and evolution, to some extent, still works. At least, ask to the three people that died yesterday, to my knowledge, near or around my little bubble of existence, due to their idiotic behavior.
One guy made me get home 40min late by trying to guess who was stronger, the man or the machine, but the locomotive won, again, and trains were diverted to a secondary railway while he was detached from the ground. The other two blocks followed the stereotype of a complete jackass: English, young, and drunk, though being English and drunk are most of the times synonyms.
It seems that they didn't pay attention to any evident signal, neither heavenly nor mundane, and had a bath in Salou at 2:00AM in a beach they didn't know at all, while the furious sea was hitting the coast. Toll: 2 dead. Every year, the same thing; the same kind of people, the very same places. They wanted to be the coolest and, yes, they are now!
Actions have reactions, and consequences. Probability and the law of large numbers are powerful, and can't be easily beaten, if not by intelligence, which those guys obviously lacked. Even in our Disneyland's Wonderful World, the difference between life and death can be just as narrow as the edge of a coin. I know it.
Today it rains again, let's see what happens!
One guy made me get home 40min late by trying to guess who was stronger, the man or the machine, but the locomotive won, again, and trains were diverted to a secondary railway while he was detached from the ground. The other two blocks followed the stereotype of a complete jackass: English, young, and drunk, though being English and drunk are most of the times synonyms.
It seems that they didn't pay attention to any evident signal, neither heavenly nor mundane, and had a bath in Salou at 2:00AM in a beach they didn't know at all, while the furious sea was hitting the coast. Toll: 2 dead. Every year, the same thing; the same kind of people, the very same places. They wanted to be the coolest and, yes, they are now!
Actions have reactions, and consequences. Probability and the law of large numbers are powerful, and can't be easily beaten, if not by intelligence, which those guys obviously lacked. Even in our Disneyland's Wonderful World, the difference between life and death can be just as narrow as the edge of a coin. I know it.
Today it rains again, let's see what happens!
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Cats and Dogs, and a Raining Man
Today, it is raining cats and dogs, as usual in this city and time of the year. The still warm sea gets angry with the first cold northern winds and breaks into huge cumulonimbus that grows like mountains and pour violently their waters, stolen from the sea, into the uneven sides of the shore. And then, a myriad of torrents appear, going down millinery ramblas flowing into the sea, giving back the precious element that was maliciously stolen from him.
I was in Pg. de Gracia and had to go to work. No umbrella. I lost my umbrellas in Japan. The easy way was to take the Metro. I was at the gates, the last place where I saw her before she left. I crossed the gates and took the left side, the same one she had run along the last time, in a hurry to meet her friends and celebrate her last night in the city. Never was invited. Next station, Fontana. There, the bench where she used to wait for me, empty, soaked by the rain. No trace of her anymore. Not anymore.
Today it is raining, and so am I.
I was in Pg. de Gracia and had to go to work. No umbrella. I lost my umbrellas in Japan. The easy way was to take the Metro. I was at the gates, the last place where I saw her before she left. I crossed the gates and took the left side, the same one she had run along the last time, in a hurry to meet her friends and celebrate her last night in the city. Never was invited. Next station, Fontana. There, the bench where she used to wait for me, empty, soaked by the rain. No trace of her anymore. Not anymore.Today it is raining, and so am I.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The Lesser of Two Weevils
...Sink, Burn, or take her a Prize!
Hold fast and let's fight!
La guerra i l'amar:
la sal de la terra.
Hold fast and let's fight!
La guerra i l'amar:
la sal de la terra.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
E., the "So+Adj." Girl
She was boring to death, I thought, while eating sushi at a crappy place. In front of me, that cute beauty, with her oceanic eyes, staring at me. "What?", kept on saying, any time I looked at her right into her eyes. She was surprised I ordered a beer for lunch.
The conversation didn't go fluently at all. "Can she really speak English?", I was wondering. I tried the friendly role, asking about her life, what she was doing at college, where she had travel to, and why she was interested in Spain. Difficult and thick as tar. Was it me? Maybe she expected something different in her gaijin blind date.
I hold her hands, and she didn't refuse to be held. I invited her for a coffee after lunch, and she said "you're so Spanish!". Yeah, she is the "so + adj." girl. For her, everything is so fun, so nice, so much...so much I like her that I love her. Wrong!!!! Never tell the truth to a girl, especially to an immature one, playing the grown-up. The coffee was over, and "now, what?", I thought.
Boredom...."where do we go now?", I asked. As usual, hanging out with a Japanese girl is somehow tiring, no initiative is expected. Though she looked intelligent, she couldn't be an exception. "Cinema", she said. Cinema? I love cinema, but no interest to watch a movie at that moment with her. I convinced her to go to a karaoke, if I couldn't have a decent conversation with her, at least, I'd like to make out with her before leaving.
Maybe, she let me feel that way since she seemed so receptive to me, approaching my side unequivocally. I held her tight by her waist. Lovely body, lovely bottom, I was so arouse. She was so gorgeous, and so boring at the same time, there was not other option left. I felt her bottom, and she let me feel it. What a glorious jewel!
Once in the karaoke I tried my luck and I won; at least, that time, I won her completely. She was so thirsty and so wet that kept on moaning in a never-ending shake of her lovely body and soft skin on my lap. I could turn her on with a single finger and make her enjoy la petite mort, like a violinist playing a legato, at my desire. Even the way she rubbed herself against my leg was so childish and so horny, like herself, a dirty doll.
It was so good, but so boring. With her sweet mouth she could do many things, but talking an interesting conversation. After my second round, I decided that it would be enough for the day. Facing a long afternoon and evening of arid boredom, I made up a fast excuse, "I've got to go back home to finish some work", and left her, so exhausted and so drowsy. She was so beautiful and young, so gorgeous and tender, and so boring and uninteresting at the same time.
She was so much...but nothing at all, at the end.
The conversation didn't go fluently at all. "Can she really speak English?", I was wondering. I tried the friendly role, asking about her life, what she was doing at college, where she had travel to, and why she was interested in Spain. Difficult and thick as tar. Was it me? Maybe she expected something different in her gaijin blind date.
I hold her hands, and she didn't refuse to be held. I invited her for a coffee after lunch, and she said "you're so Spanish!". Yeah, she is the "so + adj." girl. For her, everything is so fun, so nice, so much...so much I like her that I love her. Wrong!!!! Never tell the truth to a girl, especially to an immature one, playing the grown-up. The coffee was over, and "now, what?", I thought.
Boredom...."where do we go now?", I asked. As usual, hanging out with a Japanese girl is somehow tiring, no initiative is expected. Though she looked intelligent, she couldn't be an exception. "Cinema", she said. Cinema? I love cinema, but no interest to watch a movie at that moment with her. I convinced her to go to a karaoke, if I couldn't have a decent conversation with her, at least, I'd like to make out with her before leaving.
Maybe, she let me feel that way since she seemed so receptive to me, approaching my side unequivocally. I held her tight by her waist. Lovely body, lovely bottom, I was so arouse. She was so gorgeous, and so boring at the same time, there was not other option left. I felt her bottom, and she let me feel it. What a glorious jewel!
Once in the karaoke I tried my luck and I won; at least, that time, I won her completely. She was so thirsty and so wet that kept on moaning in a never-ending shake of her lovely body and soft skin on my lap. I could turn her on with a single finger and make her enjoy la petite mort, like a violinist playing a legato, at my desire. Even the way she rubbed herself against my leg was so childish and so horny, like herself, a dirty doll.
It was so good, but so boring. With her sweet mouth she could do many things, but talking an interesting conversation. After my second round, I decided that it would be enough for the day. Facing a long afternoon and evening of arid boredom, I made up a fast excuse, "I've got to go back home to finish some work", and left her, so exhausted and so drowsy. She was so beautiful and young, so gorgeous and tender, and so boring and uninteresting at the same time.
She was so much...but nothing at all, at the end.
Back in Time
I would like to travel back in time, to the moment when she still liked me, to the second that she still laugh with me, to the instant that she still stared at me with love. But I'm traveling with RENFE....and the only service on the menu is delay.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Salou, Playa de Europa
Today I went to Salou, the beach of Europe, as the old shabby slogan used to say. It is another place created to entertain drunk tourists. When I was a child, I used to play a game; trying to discover where a tourist came from by listening to his language. It was easier than nowadays, since most of them were just French, German, English or Dutch.
Now I can't recognize some of these languages, which I guess come from some lost former soviet republic, judging by the looks of the people that speak them. There are also those who live there but were born on the other side of the world. How did they find the way to this little corner by the sea?
My mother used to live here before getting married, working at a perfumery-photography shop that belongs to a chief of the local mafia. From her I've got the interest in other cultures and photography.
One of the most astonishing stories she's told me many times is the one about the way she got to study German. There was a Luftwaffe officer living near her place. He was a tall, blue-eyed, blond and extremely handsome middle-aged man, all year long tanned by the sun, the ideal Arian type from Riefenstahl's movies in a more vacational pose.
During the Spanish war he belonged to the Condor Legion and, among other places in Spain, had been bombing the coast near Tarragona. Strange enough, he fell in love with that place and years later, after fighing and losing the WWII, he eloped here with his lover, a heiress from the Von Faber-Castell family, leaving everything behind.
My young mother was mainly scared by some strange medals, crosses and pictures the old chap had, hanging on the walls of his apartment, but now they were just a jolly couple, most of the times completely drunk with schnapps, that spent their time exercising by the beach and lecturing German to girls for little money.
For me, that guy was a pure Romantische, a breave heart, leaving his country and his fortune, to live by the sea with his lover in a place where he had contributed to destroy.
Now I can't recognize some of these languages, which I guess come from some lost former soviet republic, judging by the looks of the people that speak them. There are also those who live there but were born on the other side of the world. How did they find the way to this little corner by the sea?
My mother used to live here before getting married, working at a perfumery-photography shop that belongs to a chief of the local mafia. From her I've got the interest in other cultures and photography. 
One of the most astonishing stories she's told me many times is the one about the way she got to study German. There was a Luftwaffe officer living near her place. He was a tall, blue-eyed, blond and extremely handsome middle-aged man, all year long tanned by the sun, the ideal Arian type from Riefenstahl's movies in a more vacational pose.During the Spanish war he belonged to the Condor Legion and, among other places in Spain, had been bombing the coast near Tarragona. Strange enough, he fell in love with that place and years later, after fighing and losing the WWII, he eloped here with his lover, a heiress from the Von Faber-Castell family, leaving everything behind.
My young mother was mainly scared by some strange medals, crosses and pictures the old chap had, hanging on the walls of his apartment, but now they were just a jolly couple, most of the times completely drunk with schnapps, that spent their time exercising by the beach and lecturing German to girls for little money.
For me, that guy was a pure Romantische, a breave heart, leaving his country and his fortune, to live by the sea with his lover in a place where he had contributed to destroy.
The bluest Window on Earth
This is what I can see from my apartment's balcony in Coma-ruga:
no more words to add....since the Mediterranean odour can't be explained, but felt.Saturday, October 3, 2009
How I Look Like, How I Shouldn't Look Like
My beloved Ch. has told me the secret of my lack of attractive. I know I usually tend to look awful, never cared that much. But recently I've experienced some disappointments due to my appearance, and I want to fix it. My laptop is cool, my car is cool, my job is kind of cool, and my apartment's view too, but not my look....I have periods, as the moon, but now, my moon is completely died down, and something must be done. First of all, losing some weight; a lot, in fact: back to Japanese food. Second, getting new clothes to hang out properly, despite they are still floating from Japan to Spain, and had nothing decent here. And finally, using again my contact lenses. It seems that my glasses cover my only good point, my eyes. "Use them to work, but not to hang out! They're ojichan-nic!!"
Les Quinze Nits or the Classic Tourist Trap
Plaça Reial is an infraworld, where the creatures of the Barcelona's nightlife swarm loose around looking for their next victim. It is never been an advisable place to stay: full of pickpockets, lunatics, junkies, scum.
What surprises me is the tourist behavior, like sheep following some randomly picked directions read in some overrated guide book. Restaurants around there are the shame of their profession, just a tourist trap for off guard travelers. Look at them! lining up like school boys waiting for the grub to be served! Amazing, isn't it? And they're having fun? At what time were they expecting to have dinner?
It happened once to me in the very same place, Les Quinze Nits (15 nights), a name that reflects the time one have to wait there or how expired is food. I don't wait in restaurants as a rule, if they can't attend me, I leave. Why should I? Are they special? Lousy food served by careless people that few months ago didn't even know the existence of something called "xato", "pa amb tomaquet", or "esqueixada de bacalla"? Besides, 1st rule when traveling abroad, NEVER GO TO A PLACE WHERE LOCALS WOULDN'T GO!!!!
Another sign that Barcelona is just an attraction park. Somebody should start a franchise of such parks around the world on the same premises, BarnaLand or the Ramblas Aventura, pickpockets included.
What surprises me is the tourist behavior, like sheep following some randomly picked directions read in some overrated guide book. Restaurants around there are the shame of their profession, just a tourist trap for off guard travelers. Look at them! lining up like school boys waiting for the grub to be served! Amazing, isn't it? And they're having fun? At what time were they expecting to have dinner?
It happened once to me in the very same place, Les Quinze Nits (15 nights), a name that reflects the time one have to wait there or how expired is food. I don't wait in restaurants as a rule, if they can't attend me, I leave. Why should I? Are they special? Lousy food served by careless people that few months ago didn't even know the existence of something called "xato", "pa amb tomaquet", or "esqueixada de bacalla"? Besides, 1st rule when traveling abroad, NEVER GO TO A PLACE WHERE LOCALS WOULDN'T GO!!!!Another sign that Barcelona is just an attraction park. Somebody should start a franchise of such parks around the world on the same premises, BarnaLand or the Ramblas Aventura, pickpockets included.
Friday, October 2, 2009
LBJF or the Let's Be Just Friends Line
Last time I kissed you, first I looked at your eyes, since i didnt want to bother you. Then I kissed you good-bye on your chick, and then, near the commissure of your sweet lips. I didn't see any bad look in your eyes, as I had seen days before. No "stop!!", no desdain, no contempt. First time I kissed you, I asked you "may I?", and you said "maybe". I did and you let me. Last time, I looked at your eyes, and I saw a welcoming glimpse, so I kissed you on your lips....and you kissed me back; yeah, you did! Then, you changend your mind; why? Not your type, you can do better, right? Yeah, maybe.
My dear friend E.M. will come to Barcelona...
My dear friend E.M. feels lonely. She is working as an OL in a soap factory near Fuse, in Osaka. Finally, after some years doing the same menial job at the office, she became kaisha-in, full employee in her company. Now, she has a stable job, she got her wished lifelong employment, but her life is empty, poor, she says, she needs love, some true love.
More than once, she has confessed to me that she doesn't like Japanese men, that she prefers to be with a gaijin, a foreign guy. She has had many acquaintances, many boyfriends, many lovers, many friends, but none has still fulfilled her gap. And she keeps looking for, without any direction, any goal, and immediate destination.
Her dad died and she was left lonely. Her sister suicided, and she became terribly lonesome. And now, she still is alone and sad, though her smile is like a rose, and every time I smell the fragrance from the soap she gave me as a present the last time we met, my mind is transported to our garden of roses, where I could drink from her mouth and enjoy with her some eternal moments.
Osaka is a ghastly place, a monster city that crumbles down into its own dissolution of rust, ugliness and bad taste. But Osaka people are among the nicer in Japan. She is a dear, a true dear, as candid and naive as a child. I want her to see the Mediterranean, and enjoy with the warm sun of Barcelona. I want her to get rid of her worries and have a look on a brighter side of life, at least, for a short time.
Now I know she will come to Barcelona, to pay a visit to the sea and to me. There is no paradise on Earth, nor any hell. The only thing that turns a hell into a paradise or vice-versa is how we imagine our lives in it. But sometimes, we are not able to transcend our own narrow view, and need some help from the outside. I do really hope Barcelona will take her out of her narrow little sad world, and I will be happy for her happiness.
More than once, she has confessed to me that she doesn't like Japanese men, that she prefers to be with a gaijin, a foreign guy. She has had many acquaintances, many boyfriends, many lovers, many friends, but none has still fulfilled her gap. And she keeps looking for, without any direction, any goal, and immediate destination.
Her dad died and she was left lonely. Her sister suicided, and she became terribly lonesome. And now, she still is alone and sad, though her smile is like a rose, and every time I smell the fragrance from the soap she gave me as a present the last time we met, my mind is transported to our garden of roses, where I could drink from her mouth and enjoy with her some eternal moments.
Osaka is a ghastly place, a monster city that crumbles down into its own dissolution of rust, ugliness and bad taste. But Osaka people are among the nicer in Japan. She is a dear, a true dear, as candid and naive as a child. I want her to see the Mediterranean, and enjoy with the warm sun of Barcelona. I want her to get rid of her worries and have a look on a brighter side of life, at least, for a short time.
Now I know she will come to Barcelona, to pay a visit to the sea and to me. There is no paradise on Earth, nor any hell. The only thing that turns a hell into a paradise or vice-versa is how we imagine our lives in it. But sometimes, we are not able to transcend our own narrow view, and need some help from the outside. I do really hope Barcelona will take her out of her narrow little sad world, and I will be happy for her happiness.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Poema XX
"Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche está estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos."
El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.
En las noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.
Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.
Oir la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.
Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche esta estrellada y ella no está conmigo.
Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.
La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.
De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.
Porque en noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
y estos sean los ultimos versos que yo le escribo."
................................................................................
Canaletes or the Holy Water
If you drink water from Canaletes fountain, you will always be in love with Barcelona and no matter how far you go, you will always come back.
Mathematically, it means that the attaction to Canaletes fountain is proportional to the distance, which is the inverse of Newton's Universal Attraction Law. Maybe, that explains why there are so many people around that area!!
Barcelona, You, Bitch!!
Barcelona is a bastard, a cheap whore, a shabby circus for tourists, where clowns are themselves. Some people might think she is the coolest city in the world, but I don't see it at all, she's never been so, and she'll never be. But she is fooling you all.
I've slept with her, been used, and dumped! A disposable love. What's the point of getting drunk and smoked to the top? I've done it, for sure, with her, many times. No prejudices, no regret, but once you get up in an unknown place, a nameless street, with an unknown sweat body besides you, dirty, guilty, drilled by the worst hang-over in your life, dead brain and broken body, then you see the real being of your soul while looking at her: nothing at all, empty spectrum with the driest tongue. Was that so cool, eh? Emptiness, silence, dirt: Barcelona, who is she?
Barcelona is a whore that sells her body to the worst payer, drunkers, homeless, fools, ignorants, the pointless people that brainlessly flock to the city looking for something they lost in their homes long time ago, and hope to find here, freedom. Barcelona is selling herself to such people, giving little doses of such freedom, though a fake one, in the shape of fun, since this is what they are asking her to be.
What if another thing was required by them? Don't worry, Barcelona would provide it too. Barcelona is an open-legged whore, letting anybody to touch her inner hollows, her sex, her deepest, wettest and sweetest parts, almost for free. Just buy her a drink and a joint, and she will let you enjoy with her cunt. She is a bitch, she is a tramp. No commitment, no love, just plain interest, just lies.
Barcelona may fool you, but can't fool me, since I've seen her crying and being raped, dumped, drunk, drugged, vomited upon, pissed, crapped, stolen, bitten, destroyed and ripped off. I've seen her begging for mercy, for help, for water, for food, for love. And now, she can't fool me any more. Though I love her, I also hate her.
Barcelona is my mother and my wife, my sister and my lover, she is my whore, my bitch, and I bang her the whole night long, while she cums once and again, in an endless orgasm of craze and fun. But Barcelona is not mine anymore, Barcelona is not yours either. Barcelona is nobody's, since Barcelona is not even hers.
I've slept with her, been used, and dumped! A disposable love. What's the point of getting drunk and smoked to the top? I've done it, for sure, with her, many times. No prejudices, no regret, but once you get up in an unknown place, a nameless street, with an unknown sweat body besides you, dirty, guilty, drilled by the worst hang-over in your life, dead brain and broken body, then you see the real being of your soul while looking at her: nothing at all, empty spectrum with the driest tongue. Was that so cool, eh? Emptiness, silence, dirt: Barcelona, who is she?
Barcelona is a whore that sells her body to the worst payer, drunkers, homeless, fools, ignorants, the pointless people that brainlessly flock to the city looking for something they lost in their homes long time ago, and hope to find here, freedom. Barcelona is selling herself to such people, giving little doses of such freedom, though a fake one, in the shape of fun, since this is what they are asking her to be.
What if another thing was required by them? Don't worry, Barcelona would provide it too. Barcelona is an open-legged whore, letting anybody to touch her inner hollows, her sex, her deepest, wettest and sweetest parts, almost for free. Just buy her a drink and a joint, and she will let you enjoy with her cunt. She is a bitch, she is a tramp. No commitment, no love, just plain interest, just lies.
Barcelona may fool you, but can't fool me, since I've seen her crying and being raped, dumped, drunk, drugged, vomited upon, pissed, crapped, stolen, bitten, destroyed and ripped off. I've seen her begging for mercy, for help, for water, for food, for love. And now, she can't fool me any more. Though I love her, I also hate her.
Barcelona is my mother and my wife, my sister and my lover, she is my whore, my bitch, and I bang her the whole night long, while she cums once and again, in an endless orgasm of craze and fun. But Barcelona is not mine anymore, Barcelona is not yours either. Barcelona is nobody's, since Barcelona is not even hers.
"Bésame Mucho" on the Train
My best friend R. sent me a song some days ago. He's a Mexican living in Japan, and from time to time he misses the heat of his land and women. I told him he is a romantic, living in the wrong place, after the wrong girl, but he keeps saying it is never the wrong place nor the wrong girl. At least, this is an old good song.
Today, on my way to work, a dude jumped on the the train and started playing the very same song, Besame Mucho, right in front of the BCN Airport, where so many loves appear or get lost.
Bésame, bésame mucho, como si fuera esta noche la última vez.
Bésame, bésame mucho, que tengo miedo a perderte, perderte despúes.
Quiero tenerte muy cerca, mirarme en tus ojos, verte junto a mí.
Piensa que tal vez mañana yo ya estaré lejos de ti, muy lejos de ti.
Mawkish, isn't it? Yeah, it is, unless it's true.
Today, on my way to work, a dude jumped on the the train and started playing the very same song, Besame Mucho, right in front of the BCN Airport, where so many loves appear or get lost.
Bésame, bésame mucho, como si fuera esta noche la última vez.
Bésame, bésame mucho, que tengo miedo a perderte, perderte despúes.
Quiero tenerte muy cerca, mirarme en tus ojos, verte junto a mí.
Piensa que tal vez mañana yo ya estaré lejos de ti, muy lejos de ti.
Mawkish, isn't it? Yeah, it is, unless it's true.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
1984 or the Big Liar
Yesterday night, while watching Buenafuente, the other genius from Reus, I heard that Tim Robbins was supposed to go to his program. At the end, he didn't show up since was not in Barcelona last night, but I could get to know he was doing a play in the city: Orwell's 1984.
I read that book during the last Iraq invasion, and was surprised by its adequacy to the present times, though he wrote it in the 40s to criticize the way the communists used to deal with reality. He had experienced such behavior while fighting in the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939), where he almost lost his life twice, once in the avant-garde in the front of Aragon, once in rear guard in Barcelona.
Moreover, I don't think it is a pure coincidence that Tim Robbins has selected the Poliorama theater to show the play, since it was there where Orwell stayed hidden while he was recovering from his wounded neck. This experience is accounted in detail in his book Homage to Catalonia.
While in Japan, I submitted a project to the Ministry of Science and Industry to develop an automatic system based on computer vision that would monitor automatically the behavior for pedestrian in crowded areas. It was my little Big Brother, and it was accepted and funded (!!??). I knew it, since Japan is crazily obsessed about being invaded by foreigners, viruses or aliens. Ironically enough, a CCTV system has recently been installed at the Orwell Sq. in Barcelona.
It is just a matter of time that a whole system of ubiquitous intelligence starts surrounding us beyond the satellites, Internet, wi-fi and mobile phones. It is claimed by experts that this is going to help us and our lives, as the rest of technical advances have already done. The difference, maybe, is the degree of intelligence and the amount of personal data that such systems will manage.
It depends on us, though, that this systems are used in a malevolent way by powerful people to enslave us, as depicted in 1984. So, following the clever advise of another egregious anarchist, Noam Chomsky, my suggestions is lying, since lies will make us free. As Buenafuente comically states it, lying is human. So, let's be humans!
I read that book during the last Iraq invasion, and was surprised by its adequacy to the present times, though he wrote it in the 40s to criticize the way the communists used to deal with reality. He had experienced such behavior while fighting in the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939), where he almost lost his life twice, once in the avant-garde in the front of Aragon, once in rear guard in Barcelona.
Moreover, I don't think it is a pure coincidence that Tim Robbins has selected the Poliorama theater to show the play, since it was there where Orwell stayed hidden while he was recovering from his wounded neck. This experience is accounted in detail in his book Homage to Catalonia.
While in Japan, I submitted a project to the Ministry of Science and Industry to develop an automatic system based on computer vision that would monitor automatically the behavior for pedestrian in crowded areas. It was my little Big Brother, and it was accepted and funded (!!??). I knew it, since Japan is crazily obsessed about being invaded by foreigners, viruses or aliens. Ironically enough, a CCTV system has recently been installed at the Orwell Sq. in Barcelona.
It is just a matter of time that a whole system of ubiquitous intelligence starts surrounding us beyond the satellites, Internet, wi-fi and mobile phones. It is claimed by experts that this is going to help us and our lives, as the rest of technical advances have already done. The difference, maybe, is the degree of intelligence and the amount of personal data that such systems will manage.
It depends on us, though, that this systems are used in a malevolent way by powerful people to enslave us, as depicted in 1984. So, following the clever advise of another egregious anarchist, Noam Chomsky, my suggestions is lying, since lies will make us free. As Buenafuente comically states it, lying is human. So, let's be humans!
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Nausicaa, Burner of Ships
Life has some funny coincidences sometimes. Every day, on my way to work, I pass across a street whose name, despite being familiar to me, I couldn't fix in my mind. Without Wiki, I deduced that it had something to do with the sea since it is close to my apartment, which is near to the sea, and because of the prefix nau-, related to ships and nav-igation. But I didn't care to check any further.
Then, the other day, my friend E., while talking about movies she liked, mentioned some Japanese anime movie named Nausikaa of the Valley of the Wind, by Hayao Miyazaki. "Wooow, I know that name!!!", I thought while she was explaining me the plot along our stroll near Sta. Maria del Mar in El Born. But, still, I didn't check it, not even in Google.
I'm not very interested in anime nor in manga, despite the time spent in Japan. Besides, Miyazaki is too foreseeable and puerile for me. I've seen some of his movies, and there is always the same recurrent themes, such as the destruction of nature, a very peculiar mixture of machines and animals, and always those flying scenes, with all sorts of artifacts, being amidst a blue sky or in the sea.
Oddly for me, Miyazaki's movies make direct usage of characters and places belonging to other literary works, such as Laputa flying isle from Swift's Gulliver's Travels, despite the context and posterior development in the movies differ from the original ones and follow the usual Miyazaki's leitmotifs.
What about Nausikaa? Nausikaa, who was she? I've checked it out and guess what: She turned out to be a character in Homer's Odyssey, another story of travels. Nausikaa was a young and pretty princess, her name meaning burner of ships. She saved the naked and stranded Ulysses from a sure death after a shipwreck and brought him in front of her father, the king, who helped Ulysses to go back home in Ithaca.
Now I remembered it! I read that part of the Odyssey, one of my companion books in Japan, though never finished it --verses were damn too difficult for me!--. Maybe I'm another Ulysses? A traveler, left stranded, and now back to a place near to the sea, not Ithaca though, but another Sta. Maria del Mar. And my Nausikaa? Where is she? I must watch that movie!
Then, the other day, my friend E., while talking about movies she liked, mentioned some Japanese anime movie named Nausikaa of the Valley of the Wind, by Hayao Miyazaki. "Wooow, I know that name!!!", I thought while she was explaining me the plot along our stroll near Sta. Maria del Mar in El Born. But, still, I didn't check it, not even in Google.I'm not very interested in anime nor in manga, despite the time spent in Japan. Besides, Miyazaki is too foreseeable and puerile for me. I've seen some of his movies, and there is always the same recurrent themes, such as the destruction of nature, a very peculiar mixture of machines and animals, and always those flying scenes, with all sorts of artifacts, being amidst a blue sky or in the sea.
Oddly for me, Miyazaki's movies make direct usage of characters and places belonging to other literary works, such as Laputa flying isle from Swift's Gulliver's Travels, despite the context and posterior development in the movies differ from the original ones and follow the usual Miyazaki's leitmotifs.
What about Nausikaa? Nausikaa, who was she? I've checked it out and guess what: She turned out to be a character in Homer's Odyssey, another story of travels. Nausikaa was a young and pretty princess, her name meaning burner of ships. She saved the naked and stranded Ulysses from a sure death after a shipwreck and brought him in front of her father, the king, who helped Ulysses to go back home in Ithaca.
Now I remembered it! I read that part of the Odyssey, one of my companion books in Japan, though never finished it --verses were damn too difficult for me!--. Maybe I'm another Ulysses? A traveler, left stranded, and now back to a place near to the sea, not Ithaca though, but another Sta. Maria del Mar. And my Nausikaa? Where is she? I must watch that movie!
Crash vs Crush
That's a crash, a real crash, occurred to my co-worker two weeks ago.
No injures, no personal damage. Not to be mixed up with a crush.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Mazinger Z or Why I Went to Japan
Some great stories start with a sentence like "I had a farm in Africa..." or "En un lugar de la Mancha...". Mine is "I went to Japan to work with robots..."; a bit of a stereotype, though true. What brought me to this? I don't really know, just I followed an unseen path, maybe.
Once i assisted to a lecture about new interesting developments in engineering, and a former algebra professor mentioned something called computer vision. I thought, "wooow, computers can actually see?!", and I decided to study such astonishing possibility. Now it is my job.
I grew up with Mazinger Z. I was so crazy about it that even had an actual fist that could fly. Then, one of the most unbelievable turn of destiny, somebody decided to build an actual replica of Mazinger right in front of my dad's village. Can anybody believe that? Yeah, and it is still there, standing in the middle of nothing more than pine trees and some old houses, 10 m high. Maybe that was my unseen path.
I went to Japan to work with robots. I worked in a research center similar to that in the cartoon, but there was no pool from where a glider would appear. No gigantic robot, either. No monsters, no Dr. Hell, no Baron Ashler, no Kabuto Koji, no Sayaka Yumi. No glory, no epic. So, I've abandoned robots and Japan. Or was it the other way round?
Enjoying Gaudi or the Gaudy Enjoyment
Barcelona is Gaudi. But who was really Gaudi? For the usual historical facts, check the wikipedia or any of the gazillion books about him. I can only tell you what my experiences are about Gaudi.
Despite the immense interest of tourists in his allegedly works, especially among Japanese ones, few people knows the basics about his life, such that he was not really born in Barcelona, but in a masia between Riudoms and Reus, a town south of Barcelona.
Due to some disease that prevented him from any physical effort, he spent part of his childhood alone, riding a tiny donkey to go from one place to another, while chasing dragonflies at the riera de Maspujols, a gravel rambla (ravine) that only carries running water when the llevantada (late summer powerful storms) hits the Tarragona maritime mountain range now and then.
I know the place. It is supposed to be there, where he discovered the marvels of natural shapes, those that some years later he translated into stone and concrete to build the most distinctive buildings of Barcelona. Static movement and self-repeated shapes, the very same patterns of plants, rooted to the ground and growing up to the skies, seeking for nutritional light. That was his interpretation of architecture. What was a building looking for in the skies? Well, since he was a pious guy, that must be god.
My elementary school was located on the place a nun convent used to exist. The only religious remains, though, were a chapel, dark and smelly, crammed with old devoted widows who substituted their long deceased earthly life with ghostly prayers in front of a weird altar. Years later, I discovered that such barbed wired altar had been the very first work of Gaudi while still a student. And it was located by my school? Amazing!
I have always thought that Gaudi's 3D cross on the top of the Casa Batllo looked like a huge garlic or fig. All Gaudi's buildings have crosses on the top, like churches. Some have a Christian motto, like the Pedrera, whose balcony ironwork also resembles a Japanese seaweed called wakame. Even in the Sagrada Familia there are some baskets with fruit. His buildings seems to be vegetable churches that connect earth and heaven.
When he was run over by a tramway, he was thought to be a homeless and send to a charity hospital where a gypsy called Pubill gave him his bed, the last soft one before the cold tombstone of his grave. Was he a genius or just a homeless (lit.)? Is he now a saint, as some people claim (lit.), or a money-making machine for Barcelona? I just think of him as a guy who longed for his childhood chasing grasshoppers and dragonflies near the riverside.
Despite the immense interest of tourists in his allegedly works, especially among Japanese ones, few people knows the basics about his life, such that he was not really born in Barcelona, but in a masia between Riudoms and Reus, a town south of Barcelona.
Due to some disease that prevented him from any physical effort, he spent part of his childhood alone, riding a tiny donkey to go from one place to another, while chasing dragonflies at the riera de Maspujols, a gravel rambla (ravine) that only carries running water when the llevantada (late summer powerful storms) hits the Tarragona maritime mountain range now and then.
I know the place. It is supposed to be there, where he discovered the marvels of natural shapes, those that some years later he translated into stone and concrete to build the most distinctive buildings of Barcelona. Static movement and self-repeated shapes, the very same patterns of plants, rooted to the ground and growing up to the skies, seeking for nutritional light. That was his interpretation of architecture. What was a building looking for in the skies? Well, since he was a pious guy, that must be god.
My elementary school was located on the place a nun convent used to exist. The only religious remains, though, were a chapel, dark and smelly, crammed with old devoted widows who substituted their long deceased earthly life with ghostly prayers in front of a weird altar. Years later, I discovered that such barbed wired altar had been the very first work of Gaudi while still a student. And it was located by my school? Amazing!
I have always thought that Gaudi's 3D cross on the top of the Casa Batllo looked like a huge garlic or fig. All Gaudi's buildings have crosses on the top, like churches. Some have a Christian motto, like the Pedrera, whose balcony ironwork also resembles a Japanese seaweed called wakame. Even in the Sagrada Familia there are some baskets with fruit. His buildings seems to be vegetable churches that connect earth and heaven.
When he was run over by a tramway, he was thought to be a homeless and send to a charity hospital where a gypsy called Pubill gave him his bed, the last soft one before the cold tombstone of his grave. Was he a genius or just a homeless (lit.)? Is he now a saint, as some people claim (lit.), or a money-making machine for Barcelona? I just think of him as a guy who longed for his childhood chasing grasshoppers and dragonflies near the riverside.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Rompimiento de Gloria or a Glorious Breaking
When the heavens break letting the sunlight go through them, something called a rompimiento de gloria appears, that is, a glorious breaking
When an angel breaks one's heart, that can also be named a glorious breaking!
However, no matter how great a storm has been or how cloudy a day is, the skies above our tiny lives are always shinny and blue, at least, in Barcelona.
When an angel breaks one's heart, that can also be named a glorious breaking!
However, no matter how great a storm has been or how cloudy a day is, the skies above our tiny lives are always shinny and blue, at least, in Barcelona.
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