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Hablamos de una astilla en la indócil piel de la memoria. Exilio violentado: ductos de edificios interiores. Heráldica precedente.

—Sampling means the same as stealing.

Se explica lo remoto. La distancia convenida por medios, enteros. Dobles. Whether you like it or not.

—Sampling means the same as stealing.

Acción y efecto. Relación. Sinonimia.
Entre habitaciones, estancias, ámbitos.

—Sampling means the same as stealing.

Unívoca, recíproca:
that's why I prefer oblivion.

—Sampling means the same as stealing.

Re-colección.

—Sampling means the same as stealing.

Sinestesia.

—Sampling means the same as stealing.

Series o sistemas. En cada uno igual significado, caracteres o función.

—Sampling means the same as stealing.

Elemento imagen con su elemento origen. La ¿solitaria? expresión de un concepto.

—Sampling means the same as stealing.

Esto nada tiene que ver contigo.

—Sampling means the same as stealing.

I don't feel like a freak anymore.

Concurrently

STATEMENT

by Claes Oldenburg

I am for an art that is political-erotical-mystical, that does something other than sit on its ass in a museum.

I am for an art that grows up not knowing it is art at all, an art given the chance of having a starting point of zero.

I am for an art that embroils itself with the everyday crap & still comes out on top.

I am for all art that imitates the human, that is comic, if necessary, or violent, or whatever is necessary.

I am for all art that takes its form from the lilies of life itself, that twists and extends and accumulates and spits and drips, and is heavy and coarse and blunt and sweet and stupid as life itself.

I am for all artist who vanishes, turning up in a white cap painting signs or hallways.

I am for art that comes out of a chimney like black hair and scatters in the sky.

I am for art that spills out of an old mail's purse when he is bounced off a passing fender.

I am for an art that joggles like everyones knees, when the bus traverses an excavation.

I am for art that is smoked, like a cigarette, smells, like a pair of shoes.

I am for art that flaps like a flag, or helps blow noses, like a handkerchief.

I am for art that is put on and taken off, like pants, which develops holes, like socks, which is eaten, like a piece of pie, or abandoned with great contempt, like a piece of shit.

I am for art covered with bandages. I am for art that limps and rolls and runs and jumps.

I am for art that comes in a can or washes up on the shore.

I am for art that coils and grunts like a wrestler. I am for art that sheds hair.

I am for art you can sit on. I am for art you can pick your nose with or stub your toes on.

I am for art from a pocket, from deep channels of the ear, from the edge of a knife, from the corners of the mouth, stuck in the eye or worn on the wrist.

I am for art under the skirts, and the art of pinching cockroaches off with a switch.

I am for art that unfolds like a map, that you can squeeze, like your sweety's arm, or kiss, like a pet dog. Which expands and squeaks, like an accordion, which you can spill your dinner on, like an old tablecloth.

I am for an art that you can hammer with, stitch with, sew with, paste with, file with.

I am for an art that tells you the time of day, or where such and such a street is.

I am for an art that helps old ladies across the street.

I am for the art of the washing machine. I am for the art of a government check. I am for the art of last wars raincoat.

I am for the art that comes up in fogs from sewer-holes in winter. I am for the art that splits when you step on a frozen puddle. I am for the worms art inside the apple. I am for the art of sweat that develops between crossed legs.

I am for the art of neck-hair and caked tea-cups, for the art between the tines of restaurant forks, for the odor of boiling dishwater.

I am for the art of sailing on Sunday, and the art of red and white gasoline pumps.

I am for the art of bright blue factory columns and blinking biscuit signs.

I am for the art of cheap plaster and enamel. I am for the art of worn marble and smashed slate. I am for the art of rolling cobblestones and sliding sand. I am for the art of slag and black coal. I am for the art of dead birds.

I am for the art of scratchings in the asphalt, daubing at the walls. I am for the art of bending and kicking metal and breaking glass, and pulling at things to make them fall down.

I am for the art of punching and skinned knees and sat-on bananas. I am for the art of kids' smells. I am for the art of mama-babble.

I am for the art of bar-babble, tooth-picking, beerdrinking, egg-salting, in-sulting. I am for the art of falling off a barstool.

I am for the art of underwear and the art of taxicabs. I am for the art of ice-cream cones dropped on concrete. I am for the majestic art of dog-turds, rising like cathedrals.

I am for the blinking arts, lighting up the night. I am for art falling, splashing, wiggling, jumping, going on and off.

I am for the art of fat truck-tires and black eyes.

I am for Kool-art, 7-UP art, Pepsi-art, Sunshine art, 39 cents art, 15 cents art, Vatronol art, Dro-bomb art, Vam art, Menthol art, L & M art, Ex-lax art, Venida art, Heaven Hill art, Pamryl art, San-o-med art, Rx art, 9.99 art, Now art, New art, How art, Fire sale art, Last Chance art, Only art, Diamond art, Tomorrow art, Frank's art, Duck's art, Meat-o-rama art.

I am for the art of bread wet by rain. I am for the rats' dance between floors. I am for the art of flies walking on a slick pear in the electric light. I am for the art of soggy onions and firm green shoots. I am for the art of clicking among the nuts when the roaches come and go. I am for the brown sad art of rotting apples.

I am for the art of meows and clatter of cats and for the art of their dumb electric eyes.

I am for the white art of refrigerators and their muscular openings and closings.

I am for the art of rust and mold. I am for the art of hearts, funeral hearts or sweetheart hearts, full of nougat. I am for the art of worn meathooks and singing barrels of red, white, blue and yellow meat.

I am for the art of things lost or thrown away, coming home from school. I am for the art of cock-and-ball trees and flying cows and the noise of rectangles and squares. I am for the art of crayons and weak grey pencil-lead, and grainy wash and sticky oil paint, and the art of windshield wipers and the art of the finger on a cold window, on dusty steel or in the bubbles on the sides of a bathtub.

I am for the art of teddy-bears and guns and decapitated rabbits, exploded umbrellas, raped beds, chairs with their brown bones broken, burning trees, firecracker ends, chicken bones, pigeon bones and boxes with men sleeping in them.

I am for the art of slightly rotten funeral flowers, hung bloody rabbits and wrinkly yellow chickens, bass drums & tambourines, and plastic phonographs.

I am for the art of abandoned boxes, tied like pharaohs. I am for an art of watertanks and speeding clouds and flapping shades.

I am for U.S. Government Inspected Art, Grade A art, Regular Price art, Yellow Ripe art, Extra Fancy art, Ready-to-eat art, Best-for-less art, Ready-to-cook art, Fully cleaned art, Spend Less art, Eat Better art, Ham art, pork art, chicken art, tomato art, banana art, apple art, turkey art, cake art, cookie art.

add:
I am for an art that is combed down, that is hung from each ear, that is laid on the lips and under the eyes, that is shaved from the legs, that is brushed on the teeth, that is fixed on the thighs, that is slipped on the foot square which becomes blobby.

Mochomos Sinaloenses (Shredded Beef)

Yield: 8 Servings

Ingredients

2 lb rump steak; w/some fat on,
-in 1 cubes
1 1/2 tb sea salt
1 water to cover
1 lard
1/2 lb sliced white onion
1/4 c more lard
1 poblano chile (seeded;
-roasted and cut into smal

Instructions

Date: Mon, 19 Feb 1996 14:58:04 PST

From: Michael Bowers

Subject: Re: shredded machaca beef >Does anyone have a recipe for shredded
machaca beef? Is shredded beef >best made in a crock pot? What is the best
kind of meat used? I would >like to make some HOT machaca meat for burros,
chimichangas, etc. I >searched the recipes and didn't find any. The
Sonoran style machaca is salted, dried in the sun and broiled and pounded.
Diana Kennedy suggests the following; she notes that it is salty and isn't
picante (as it is made in Sonora/Sinaloa, MX). Heat it up as you see fit!

Mochomos Sinaloenses

Cut 2 # of rump steak, w/some fat on into 1" cubes. Add 1 1/2 Tbs sea
salt and enough water to cover it in a single layer in a heavy frying pan.
Bring to boil, cook slowly uncovered until water is gone and meat is
tender, but not too soft. Continue drying meat over a low flame until dried
and slightly crusty on the outside. Let cool.

Place meat 2 or 3 pieces at at time in a blender and shred. Heat some lard
in a frying pan, add 1/2 lb sliced white onion and fry for 1 min. Remove.
Add 1/4 C more lard, heat, add meat and 1 poblano chile (seeded, roasted
and cut into small squares) and stir until meat is just browing. Add onions
and serve.

CHILE-HEADS DIGEST V2 #245

From the Chile-Heads recipe list. Downloaded from Glen's MM Recipe
Archive, http://www.erols.com/hosey.

Yo no soy nadie

I.
Dijeron ayer las noticias: "Tartaglia lanzó un souvenir que impactó en la boca del primer ministro. Al ser detenido, dijo: 'Yo no soy nadie'."

Y yo me preguntaba por el ozono recortado tras las torres de la catedral de Milán.

II.
Pero, ¿quién soy yo?

III.
WiKi said:

Silvio Berlusconi is an Italian politician, the current Prime Minister of Italy as well as a billionaire entrepreneur. He is the longest-serving Prime Minister of Italy, a position he has held on three separate occasions: from 1994 to 1995, from 2001 to 2006 and currently since 2008.^[1] He is the leader of the People of Freedom political movement, a centre-right party he founded in 2009. As of November 2009, he is the longest-serving current leader of a G8 country.

Dictatorship, anyone?

IV.
A la letra el peculiar concepto "democracia": los gobernantes [presidentes, ministros, secretarios, jueces, congresistas] portan la voz del resto de la gente.

En esa voz [de ellos] se encuentra contenido todo el clamor de un pueblo.

¿Qué ocurre si alguno de ese pueblo violenta la sacralidad de los labios desde los cuales emergen las dulces notas que dictan –enteros– los destinos personales?

Siempre habrá [como bien lo apuntó Gloria Gómez Guzmán] alguno entre nosotros que vaya, vea y venza.

V.
Del Vocero: "No, señores. Todos ustedes están equivocados. El incidente nada tuvo que ver con la actual situación crispante por la cual atraviesa el país. Es un suceso aislado, provocado por un solo individuo que, por cierto, padece de sus facultades mentales desde hace tiempo."

VI.
Del expediente de
Tartaglia: disidente... [tache usted]: demente... [mejor aún]: T-E-R-R-O-R-I-S-T-A.

VII.
Insiste el gigante Polifemo en su ceguera: "¿quién soy yo?"

Odiseo, ya sobre la nave de los locos, se despide y grita: "Nadie".
Acota el endemoniado de Gerasa: "Mi nombre es Legión".

El Rey Sol replica: "El Estado soy yo".

"Todos somos Massimo Tartaglia."

VIII.
Si hablamos de situaciones paralelas: ¿existirá, en las inmediaciones de La Villa, alguna estatuilla de plástico y yeso en miniatura de la basílica de Guadalupe? Semejante souvenir.

Ahora que es el tiempo, escoja usted el templo de su predilección.

/.

Oh Night Divine

RT @aplusk happy holiday season to you and your family.

Ha comenzado

Y la primera fue mi amiguérrima victorense, la muy cotidiana y discursiva Claudia Castañeda. Aquí la pieza múltiple de su autoría en su magnífico blog:

La Cotidiana & Golden Boy

[Más noticias muy pronto]

Herodotus [or He's A Golden DILF]

"I have seen editions of The Histories with a sculpted portrait on the cover. Some statue found in a French museum. But I never imagine Herodotus this way. I see him more as one of those spare men of the desert who travel from oasis to oasis, trading legends as if it is the exchange of seeds, consuming everything without suspicion, piecing together a mirage. 'This history of mine,' Herodotus says, 'has from the beginning sought out the supplementary to the main argument.' What you find in him are the cul-de-sacs within the sweep of history—how people betray each other for the sake of nations, how people fall in love..."

Casuarinas

A Cristina Rivera Garza, en el día de su Sor Juana 2009

1
El mezanine de un hotel. Sí. El mismo mezanine donde una planta crecía dentro de una maceta rota. La resquebrajadura volteada hacia un rincón. De modo [se habría dicho] estratégico. De cara a la pared. Como es debido, desde luego.

2
A partir de ese momento [creo] las risas. La risa. El asalto a la simultaneidad. Ambos con un pesado azul desde los párpados. Concomitancia. Los toqueteos del vino rojo en torno al blando asedio del presente. Frenesí lingüístico entintado. Los procesos que sólo así le pertenecen. Le conciernen.

3
Luego, si acaso, dos o tres las intentonas de una búsqueda lineal y, estrictamente, especulativa. La ficción desde la no-ficción. La voz mía con que me llamo y no me busco. La distancia que reúne aquellos pequeños espacios perdidos de tiempo, que se deconstruye cuando la flor se abre sobre el cuenco impoluto entre ambas: las crestas de Ilión.

4
Hasta que [por cierto] otra vez fue en un hotel. Tal vez en dos, pero siempre será mejor hablar de uno. ¿Qué habrá sido de la mujer eternamente en el exilio de 1825? [Ebria consuetudinaria.] ¿Qué si no sus escandalosas costumbres, su crimen, sus maldades? ¿Cierto?

5
Los Janambres son un sitio.

6
El cortejo, seriamente sobrevalorado en nuestros días, rodó desde soberbia sobremesa a los jardines alisados de un muy campestre club.

7
Ya se hable de París o Normandía [por aquello de 'lo' extranjero], hubo tiempo para trémula solicitud en oraciones dactilares. Uno. Sólo uno. ¡Piedad! Y cual dulce milagro: un zagalo avenido del poniente hacia las fauces chorreadas por el hambre. Olor a santidad. Un personalísimo proceso de canonización. Y es así como todo se resume y vuelve al vino. Uno rojo. De la Toscana.

8
¿Conceptualista o conceptual? También las perlas de la virgen tienen costo. Sobre todo a los ojos de los otros. Aquel obscuro, objeto, deseo.

9
Cuando viajes, decía, siempre será bueno desayunar algo ligero. Esa brusca levedad al levantarse. Desprendidos de la risa [ahí el furor] dimos larga cepillada a la memoria. Sin reposo, dijimos. Pues ¿acaso no todo lo que vemos se encuentra desde ya, precisamente, en el pasado?

10
A tono:

casuarina.

(De casuario, por la semejanza de sus hojas con las plumas de esta ave).

1. f. Árbol de la familia de las Casuarináceas, que vive en Australia, Java, Madagascar y Nueva Zelanda. Sus hojas son parecidas a las plumas del casuario, y sus ramas producen con el viento un sonido algo musical.

Con Mr. Ondaatje

In the criminal compound nearby they kept the American poet Ezra Pound in a cage, where he hid on his body and pockets, moving it daily for his own image of security, the propeller of eucalyptus he had bent down and plucked from his traitor's garden when he was arrested. "Eucalyptus that is for memory."