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As the last post of this wonderful 2009, I leave The picture was moved, a story by Julio Cortazar that I love:

A cronopio will open the front door, and put his hand into his pocket for the key that takes is a box of matches, then this much and grieve cronopio begins to think that if instead of the key finds matches, it would be horrible that the world had moved at once, and maybe if the matches are where the key, it can happen that you find a wallet full of matches, and the full sugar money, and the piano filled with sugar, and the phone's full of music, and the closet full of subscribers, and the bed full of costumes, and vases full of linens, and trams full of roses, and fields full of trams. So this cronopio grieving horribly and runs to look in the mirror, but as the mirror is somewhat lopsided what you see is the umbrella of the hall, and its assumptions are confirmed and bursts into tears, falls to his knees and puts his little hands do not know why. The famas neighbors come to console him, and hope, but spend hours before the cronopio out of his despair and accept a cup of tea, which looks and looks a lot before drinking, not going to happen instead of a cup area is an ant or a book of Samuel Smiles.

Have a very good new year. See you in 2010.

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moved

Behind her eyes there a bag full of pigeons, a galley with chocolate bunnies and elephants of mint, a magic wand that turns vacant lots on roads and paths on routes that lead many sides . Behind their eyes is ludicrous prison caged lions, lions jumping hoops set on fire because they get bored if they do not. Behind his eyes with a thousand boxes are locks that keep pieces of women: beyond a torso, back legs, and there a smiley face, and none of these women is me, because I'm on this side, I am whole and I'm looking at what behind their eyes.

And I say, behind your eyes there are many more things that you put forward, and then he closes his eyes so I do not see it, but it's too late, because I saw what's behind your eyes and because I have many things behind my eyes.

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Carpets That *

The vagina was wrong and had told him. His mother had instilled from an early age. That does not play, he said. Why not say vagina , said that .

- not when I bathe? Candida asked, and the mother turned her face a slap, then taught to bathe with underwear on, so as to minimize any friction.

Candida's father was an important man who wore a uniform and weapons. The men who worked with him called him Colonel . His wife's mother, Candida, also called him. And thanks to a loving parental effort, Candida was allowed to call him dad .

had no brothers. Had, but not anymore. The largest was killed in a street fight for a couple of years while trying to fix a confusing matter of honor. The sister who was unable to tuberculosis who wore body and soul to make it a pitiful ghost counting the hours you were to close my eyes forever. The colonel and his wife looked Candida waiting for the moment to yield to a fever, colic or some of these diseases among women. But that was not the case, Candida was growing up, learning to swim alone, and wondered if the vagina is not never, ever played. And the mother corrected the slaps, because that was how it had been brought, and what had gone well, as straight, subtle and imperceptible that even a colonel had chosen as his wife.

When Candida turned fifteen, he was introduced to her husband. He was a soldier barely older than her, looking shifty and nervous hands. Candida did not want to marry this guy but with Peter, his friend who secretly gave him the colonel margaritas and stared when I thought that she was not looking, but no one asked, they would marry in the spring, and the party would be open the people, for people to appreciate the generosity of Colonel.

For the occasion, the mother of Candida her a sheet with a hole at the height of your belly.

"For your husband to consummate marriage without having to leave it exposed, it would be an unnecessary waste of debauchery, "he explained, dry and lean. Candida nodded, resigned, and the marriage was consummated, absurd and boring.

The husband was a quiet soldier, rough and strange. Candida months passed and not found out anything about him except that he could become very dangerous, with the danger of irrational, awkward teenager who is believed a man if she did not expect to have dinner ready. Candida wanted to know what things made them laugh, what was your pet, what he was afraid. The responses were dirty jokes, dog , to humiliation, but Candida do not know why the husband did not speak.

What I knew, because she told a neighbor, was that her husband liked to go to the brothel at the end of the street.

- And what is there?

-sleeps with women.

I do not understand. Are you going to that place to sleep? If at home we bed.

"No, not sleep. It is a manner of speaking. She sleeps with women. Have sex with women. Did you do that with you at night wedding.

Candida was surprised and felt no pain or distress or treason but curiosity. And that night her husband went to the brothel, and peered through the window of the street and saw what excited: her husband was naked, and he charged like a man possessed of a gorgeous woman. The woman was naked. That had to mean that the vagina, that it was not so bad. Candida returned home, heart and feet tapping in a hurry.

closed the door, undressed entire first time in his life and stood before the mirror. First we looked tits, they were not as great as those of women in the brothel but they seemed pretty equal. They were touched and felt tips, brown stuff, hardened as when it was cold, but Candida was not cold. Then he looked at the belly button and thought it was something attractive. Ideally word sexy , but Candida did not know that word. He turned and stared at her ass, was white, round and had two dimples in cheek. A Candida also liked her ass.

finally opened her legs and watched her vagina. First thought it was horrible. Then hesitated. To dispel doubts, dared to play. And I did not think anything horrible. He kept playing it, and whenever he liked best. And more. And more. And I wanted to tell her mother that she was wrong, that the vagina was not bad, could not be, something bad could not feel so good. But her mother did not understand. Then, in a second of boldness that made her laugh out loud, like an exorcism without demon, he knew he had to do. He dressed quickly and went looking for Peter.

had something to tell.

* This story and I XVI final results of the Short Story Competition Leopoldo Marechal, 2009.

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Years passed, yet not forgotten. That morning, Dad told me

"Today we go to Uncle Philip, because he has a new carpet.

I shuddered. I never liked Uncle Philip carpets.

Uncle Philip, once or twice a year, going to the forest and hunted animals. Then hang the heads of animals living in the wall, or used the skins to make rugs. Each time he returned from the forest, Uncle Philip was organizing a party, roasted deer and drank champagne, and the whole family was invited, and we had to go and say how much we liked the new puma squashed under the coffee table or the new head of a giraffe hanging above the fireplace. And me, I never liked the murders, I hated both dissected cadaver.

We arrived at noon, just when the deer began long grill smell of charred flesh. Uncle Philip came towards us shouting and gesturing a lot, and began handing out drinks and boring and frightening anecdotes about his latest stay in the jungle.

- Let's see the carpet! He exclaimed when he saw mom began to fall asleep, and took us to the living. A lion larger than my imagination carpeted floor. Uncle Philip was swelled with pride, accepted congratulations from Dad pretended not to see Mom's face of disgust, and asked me if I liked. I said more or less what I said was that the lion blinked, and I said no for two reasons: one, because they would not believe me, and two, because if I thought my uncle would grab the gun and would ensure the lion did not return to blink. I asked permission to stay in the living room while their parents ate deer in the yard, that I have no hunger, and so I could stay there, sitting on the floor, next to the new carpet.

"Hey," I said to the lion as soon as we were alone. The Lion opened his eyes and looked at me. Then he stood and shook like a dog when they wake up. For some strange reason, my uncle had not realized that the lion was alive and unharmed, for some even stranger reason, the lion was alive and unharmed. And I had to get him out.

opened wide the windows of the living mammoth, the lion had approached them and looked out.

"You will not get out, my uncle is in the yard," I said, trying to devise a plan to release the animal without noticing that my uncle, understand, I was a child.

But the lion should have known something I did not know, because I licked her face and flew out the window toward the unattainable sky, and faced the astonished gaze of my uncle, who had never suspected that lion, lion also was flying carpet.

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Gone with the Wind was not

He looked like Juliette Binoche, but with body and soul Italian identity strange and unique.

Nona was my mom, my mom. Came by boat in the late forties, because there could not be and here itself. And I am, I am, I exist because she came by boat in the late forties, and because a while back, there in the camp, did not think the showers were actually showers and hid I do not know where or how she hid because she did not talk much about it. And if they spoke was not a matter of denial of the past but by a rare quality of his nature did not complain, did not protest, did not speak ill of anyone, I am not exaggerating the virtues of a loved one and death: it was really well , and I know another who wield the patience and understanding to extremes as unlikely as she did.

The few times we discussed was his tendency to defend the other, in an exercise to which I find irritating. I was fighting with someone and she never put on my side, it seemed. Now, years later, I do the same. Never jump my favor, my friends accuse me, and I want to say that it is not so well, and I can not help smiling quietly to discover the quiet and persistent influence, the influence tattooed on my ninth, the influence of death , a death too bitch, could not boot.

And like the energetic, bright sun, and I see that I lose patience easily when I meet people who use the complaint as a natural state of mind, pessimism as an argument, protest as a shield, and they do in situations, in my opinion, insignificant. I know many times I am wrong, and that each pain is unique and stands on its own, but did not inherit the wise quiet compared to what irritates me.

I was raised in the house of a woman, believe me, had several reasons, big reasons to live resent the world, and yet did not. What I did was find flowers in swamps and smoke signals, and the wonder is not doing it for ingenuity, but from experience, experienced terrible things, but when I was back (when I met her), acted like a person can never hurt. He had a real chance to think the world is uninhabitable, and chose not to. This election reminds me a lot and makes me lose patience with the whining easy, compared with the malice absurd complaint against running out of boredom or ignorance.

And I have the blood of this woman. And I have blood influence. And I know (I learned after a duel four years) that there is one thing death can not take: Life as a lifestyle choice.

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Tony Soprano's psychologist

In the excellent series The Sopranos, the mob boss, Tony Soprano suffers panic attacks. To solve your problem, it begins to be a psychologist, and the sessions between Soprano and her doctor will become the fulcrum of the series.

Soprano's psychologist is a very strict moral character: accept the mobster as a patient because he understands he has a problem on a personal level and you need to fix it, but he warns: if you tell me about your crimes, I'll have to denounce . The Soprano relationship you have with your psychologist is a bit confusing: both are attracted to, even he thinks he loves her, but the woman's fierce moral imposed on anything else.

In one episode, women suffer rape. A man cornered in the building where she works and rapes her, leaving her obviously very traumatized. The next day, the doctor has meeting with Tony Soprano, he looks funny, moody. The looks bad. He asks if it feels good, if something happens, if you can help somehow. She doubts, thanks him and tells him not to. Later, in a session with his own analyst, she says,

"I know that if you tell Tony Soprano that raped me, he would move heaven and earth to find the guy. And find him and tortured him, then kill him.

Psychologist, surprised and somewhat shocked, asks if she is going to ask Tony Soprano to destroy the guy who raped her. The woman replied:

-No. I just know I can.

Meeting in that response, the ultimate expression of power. The real power, peak power, is inactive. The powerful truth has no need to exercise their power, because you just know it's okay. If any action is to satisfy one's desires, the powerful accountable to anyone not feel done with the simple certainty of his power. Who has to prove he has, does, at bottom, something.

Tony Soprano is a mob boss. If you wish, move a finger and destroys a city. It is, in action, the most powerful person in the series. Tony Soprano's psychologist is a raped woman who knows that if you want, say a word and Tony Soprano destroys his assailant. And those who look at the series we sense that Tony Soprano would do that without asking anything in return, because the relationship he has with this woman Soprano does not have with anyone else. But women do not ask.

The mafia is in the hands of a psychologist honest, nobody knows.

That is power.

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Analysis of means (the news amorphous)

Sometimes, every so often, someone asks me for opinion, I asked what I recommend reading literature. I replied: "Everything." Especially if he also reads, writes. I think to find the style should be fed a variety of literature: the more varied and better, because the variety makes it difficult to copy or imitation, even if unintentional, is so influential that one has no choice but to write words themselves. Read it like it is another matter. Read all means do not enjoy all read or agree with everything you read. Read all means more tools.

When reading the newspaper, most often read the newspaper. A daily, one. I suppose our subconscious tells us that the news is always the same, and so why change fonts.
It turns out that the source gives shape to the story (naturally amorphous), because behind Source is a business (a newspaper is a business, workers, lower positions, senior positions, heads, managers and others) who looks after his interests. Their own interests. Then, if the news in an amorphous state is not convenient for the company (newspaper or any media), the company gives way to the news, carving, polishing, lime, paints, varnishes and decorate the according to their convenience (the convenience of the company).
So, what should be read daily? What news there is that look? All. No one who believes more or less like us, so they have a guarantee for our own ("self?) Opinion. All the ruling, the opposition, and we do not know what it is. Because if we read every day, all ways of making the news, copying and imitation (albeit unintentional) is becoming more difficult, more hazy, more distant.
And there, right there, we started thinking.

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I look

"The free man is not afraid to go to the end of his thought" (Léon Blum).

downside of introspection is no way out. Is one to one, and one against one in order to be one for one. What argument stands up for what is not known, with what argument stands or eradication? I look to understand what makes the noise, where is the leak, where the crack, where it unbreakable. I watch because there is so much world outside, and inside too, and I have to know them apart.

But there is no way out. Not that I'm away, I can be alone with my head without having a phantom attack. And I think I earned that privilege when I agreed to look at me knowing that there is no possible solution: the dead ends are a thing of brave or suicidal, I'm not the first, but instead I am convinced that I am not the latter. I conclude, then, yes I am the first; it shows that I was wrong. Another reason for introspection. To be brave is to be brave.

There are answers and guessed they were there, yet I do not like. They are annoying, do not fit with my plans. But Gilda, you know perfectly well that there is a tremendous error in what fits, you know perfectly well that fit is an error, that truth does not fit but fits alone. You know perfectly well that if the answers coming out of your inner self are uncomfortable, you're asking questions wrong. Change the question.

What do I do with the world? I do not understand the question. Change it.

What do the words of others, the silence of others, the presence and absence of others, lies outside the truths of others that are directed at me? Those that do not touch me do not interest me, at least not now, but my insight, I can be selfish. Huh? What do I do? Again you are asking wrong. Do you see that there is no response? What is alien is not yours, so you can not do anything. You're asking wrong.

Let's see now what do I do with my words, my silence, my presence and my absence, with my lies, my truths, my everything that is addressed to the other? Good question, journalist. Answer: Bancatel. You're responsible for what emitís. Can I bancármelo? Idle question, you know your response. And now I kept watching, this is just beginning.

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- Do not kill me, I'm an enchanted prince! He shouted the cockroach. I stayed with the slipper in hand, ready to strike.

- A Prince Charming? I asked.

"Yes, my beloved. Kiss me and go back to being the noble man he was before.

I hesitated a moment, just a moment, long enough to cover my living room with eyes and see my three men: one owned and watching football and scratching his crotch, another drank wine in tetra -brick without bothering to clean the ink jet streaming down his chin, and the third slept on the couch in shorts and socks, while snoring made my home look like a barn. Before I had been kissing frog, lizard and meerkat.

I got the slipper and stepped on the cockroach. From now on, I said, commoner or anything.

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Another Prince Charming And we have not seen anything

"The big fish reaches that size because they never get caught" (Tim Burton).

In the film Big Fish, we see how the main character, Edward Bloom, spends his life telling stories, fabulous and implausible about his past. And his son is sick. Your child is injured. Your child is a sensible young man who feels he does not know his father, because every time I asked him to tell how a certain thing occurred, given fact, the father uses some of his tales. Edward Bloom told his son that the day of his birth, he was not present at birth because that was the day I caught the big fish, a huge and almost mythological fish that lived in the river of people.

One day the child is with the old doctor who attended their birth, and asks how he was actually born. The doctor, who knows the version of Edward Bloom (as everyone knows in town), he answers:

"Your mother came alone because your father was on a business trip and did not arrive on time. Your father's version is better, right?

Edward Bloom is a difficult person, as is every person who does not get caught by the established models. There is a rebel: a guy who has a very particular way of seeing things and, therefore, a very particular way of acting: in a land of magicians, he believes in magic. And as every true believer, not merely to believe, but active belief, the feedback.

In one of his radio monologues, Alejandro Dolina said: " ... but sometimes, I say, these games are not as innocent and sometimes, the game is simply live as if we had not yet happened for the best. And that already is a heavy game, a game that sometimes is expensive, a serious game. And you play it, play it seriously, as children play with the same faith or poetry that Coleridge called to understand the art, with that resignation to unbelief ...".

And it Joaquín Sabina himself says: "... for lies, the reality promises everything but nothing gives you, my crime was wearing blue to gray prince. "

So, as they say Dolina and Sabina, this is Edward Bloom. Do not get caught. Playing, keep playing, as if he had not yet happened for the best, as if I had not seen anything yet. Prince wears blue gray, and does so in a serious way, because his life is at stake (the life he chose to live, with big fish unattainable and werewolves whose apparent evil "is only loneliness and lack of social refinement").

Los Edward Bloom del mundo son la delicia de los detractores. ¿De los detractores de qué? De los detractores en general, de los detractores y punto.

Y como sé que mi tendencia a la honestidad brutal, a la carencia de eufemismos, a la necesidad de la verdad como lanza y como escudo, puede generar confusiones válidas, aclaro: yo también creo que las versiones de Edward Bloom son mejores. Yo tampoco quiero dejarme atrapar. Porque yo también quiero seguir jugando como si todavía no hubiera visto nada.

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Chinese shadow

He is an artist of the shadow play. He likes to set the stage, light candles and place them in the place that best suits your art. I love to sit in my chair against the wall and let myself fascinated by the talk that his hands invent. Dance is silent. He speaks not only creates figures. And I have to guess what it is.

"This is the heroic gladiator beats ice with his sword trained to kill the lion.

He growls at how quickly my answer, no one likes to be guessed, even so, I always choose as a partner because he knows I'm going to guess. He loves the sensations. His hands returned to dance in front of the fire flickering candles, the darkness is ideal.

risked.

"This is the lion that was injured by the gladiator in the shadows above. Now moans because it hurts his wound and his majesty defeated.

He frowns because not bear to lose two of two. With anger blows out the candles so that I do not see your pride and pleasure in the midst of absolute darkness challenges me:

- Now do you see?

I stared at the wall invaded the blackness of the non-light and no doubt.

"This is you.

Inventing the curious theories about mixed feelings back to light the candles (means you need some light if you want to hide) and without looking be looking for people that instead of heroic gladiators and lions look injured rabbits or doves or butterflies, and when the fire goes out of his sails in a sign of vulnerability honestísima, rather than see him see nothing.

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Men are from Mars

was not appendicitis.

"Congratulations, a ... eh ... "Man? "Said the doctor as he held more professional than the bicharrajo viscous tenderness he had taken from my body.

The arena whined, belching and calling me Mom . I looked and remembered: a few months ago he had met a man. I think it was a man, was green and invited me to spend a night in their spaceship. Very comfortable, the ship. And the "man? making intelligent comments, was funny and was good. The color did not matter, I was never racist. Then I got off the ship (I had a fluffy pouf was re divinura), I went home, and I guess he went back to Mars. I think it was from Mars, that of "men are from Mars, Women Are from Venus." Can not, was able to saturnine, lunatic or Neptune. Stranger safety.

The issue is that my son has no father, and the green man of my life I know you have a child. I tell him that looks just like him: green and long limbs. I took it slimy, sticky me. And I want to claim the alimony, our offspring eat two dozen pies and a gallon of gasoline only at breakfast. Does anyone know when is the next flight to Mars? Oh, no flights to Mars? How can it be? A separate family more because of the bureaucracy. This country can not live. No, not in this country in this world can not live. No wonder he did not return. If this world is a mess: Obama is Nobel Peace Prize and there are no flights to Mars.

I'ma grab the telescope and see if I see him.

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And victory will grow slowly, as they have always grown victories (Mario Benedetti).

Not that death is a victory, not about that. I can not see death as a victory. Not that I cry like the cry the people, I was never a fan of Mercedes Sosa, but that's not what matters. I do not mind no matter its people, at least not in this timely text.

Victory is the time. Is the water that ran under the bridge, is the rain that drenched everything from at Sabina sings, that rain today. The victory is his strength, consistency in his speech as always, the sense of freedom leaving and left. Sing what you can not sing is a clear example of freedom. Ovarian well positioned and freedom. Being exiled, be expelled, be threatened, to sing what can not sing it, it sounds strange, another clear example of freedom. I imagine she must have the option to withdraw, to sing songs harmless, to be photographed smiling next to the tyrants in power, to get into the shell of non-questioning, never say I do not agree, have had all these options I imagine, and not used. What I used was their right, their reckless right, singing things like give thanks to misfortune and hand with dagger because it killed me so bad and I kept singing, for example. And they used when the rights were a distant dream, a cause for pain, when words were, more than ever, double-edged swords, kill you (unfair and definitely not as bad as the knife hand with the song ) or you exiled. And the exile, and guess who was exiled (humans, not the words) also thought it was final, the victory was theirs, that time could not bring defeat. Because time is victory, but it was not for them.

They now must be as old like her, so physically weak as her, so close to death (which is not victory, and safe start to understand it) as it was it must consider the charge of the world and should not understand. Or better yet (my optimism and my naivete are tough), they do understand. Should see the tears of all, the cry of all, tear all the homage and praise of all. Should note that more than a remote and alien places his death, she died as a cover story, and should listen to the people (artists, anonymous, presidents in democracy) mourn his death, and that seems sincere regret. And also see that many use her death, her death as something from which it hung. And that (Do not know if they will get) is also the victory. Because it was taboo, and now is pride.

And she is dead but victorious. And they are alive but old, weak and dying, perhaps begin to understand.

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- What do you like most about God? - Asked Patrick.

- San Roque. Because the statue is a dog, and I like dogs - he answered, without hesitation, Macarena. They were sitting on the bench churchyard, waiting to be made when the catechism class, it was a rainy and cold, and maybe that's why those two were the only students who had come to the parish, his parents insisted that a catechism , and the school is not necessary, except for emergencies, and the bad weather was not an emergency.

- I like David, because he killed a piedrazo Goliath. Because Goliath was bad. Macarena

thought about it and he was right.

- Today we played with the Father Ariel, right? - Asked Patrick.

- Yes, for luck. I like more Father Father Facundo Ariel. Do you? Macarena

slow to respond, when he finally did, he lowered his voice.

- I told my sister, the largest, that the Father Ariel has a girlfriend. And the bride is pregnant. And my sister knows this because the bride's father is her friend Ariel. Do not tell anyone because it is a sin that the Father Ariel has a girlfriend. I do not tell anyone because I too prefer the Father the Father Facundo Ariel, even a sinner. Patricio

swore that I was not going to tell anyone except the Father Facundo.

- I like more Ariel father - Patrick continued after a pause - because he greets me normal. Father Facundo hugs me a lot and I played a lot, and I do not like. And I told Martin that he touched the tail, once they were alone. Macarena

listened in silence, although he was only nine years, like Patrick and Martin felt that nothing that would mourn Patricio could be good, and Patrick was crying there, at that time, as he spoke of the Father Facundo.

- Luckily today we Ariel Father - tried to console him. Patricio nodded and wiped away tears.

The sacristy door opened and came Father Facundo.

- Adelante, guys - invited, smiling white. Macarena and Patricio glances.

- What Father Ariel? - Asked babe.

- Had inconvenient personal and called Bishop. So today replaced him me. We seem solos, you they alone came - commented, looking around - Spend?

Patricio not answer and slipped in room, preceding Father Facundo. Macarena ducked, grabbed a stone soil slipped it pocket and followed closing behind him door sacristy while thunder broke heaven.

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Humor Noble

Bertovisión

Yesterday was amazing. It was the typical absurd to you over the hole. The fact is that the analysis of the photos went well until he left the stage helium. If it's in case the voice change that causes the helium's funny, imagine this formula: Berto + Helio = Death by laughter. There were two specific
momentazo that it was impossible not to laugh: The first was when I swallowed for the first time, by the novelty and because it is always funny. And the second was and when he could no more and even he Descojonado because it gave too much pressure on the tank and almost "out of sight." We came to laugh and could not stop That's when I almost had something to me haha. Bertovisión I leave here yesterday to enjoy it. Just one thing, put helium?

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Meee, meee, meee, meee ... Ton, ton, ton, Toulon ... Johnny Depp Spanish

Yep, Andre Berto and gave the grapes and they did shit, so that let's talk refined. The truth is that the monologue-balance as he was always very good. Collect everything you have done in a year with forgetting the bad times humor is the best we have, just stick with what good. During

grapes, Bert ... say Stefano explained the process clock sound of the door of the sun: "First the chimes that sound like mee, meee , which is like mee Duchess of Alba having an orgasm. " And the thing look bad because food and laughter was never a good combination. And indeed it was, it was time to eat grapes and I could not stop laughing but had to swallow the fruit monono. About
could be done but the program came to an end but not before the year started with a prediction of Berto. Here you have:

I love when he sings Berto has a pleasant voice and the songs really makes you stay in the subconscious, are very catchy.
I wish you a happy new year to all and I wish you many good times.