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Friday, August second, 2013
Kind of flabbergasted that I have never encountered any mention of Glen Island amusement park in the writings of Thomas Pynchon -- it seems utterly implausible that the Chums of Chance (for instance) would never have paid a visit.
 A stone's throw from David's Island, which was devoted entire to the Army post, was Glen Island. This wooded islet had been rented, for the purpose of exhibiting little colonies of foreign people, by a good old sport, who confided to me that he liked champagne when it wasn't too "corky," and who had spent his whole life up to his present ripe age in exhibiting pretty girls and tickling the American palate with new and outlandish sensations. One year he would have Eskimos living in glass huts frosted to look like ice, with real Eskimo dogs and sleds; another, he would show a community of Hottentots, as unclothed as New York laws would tolerate, with their round straw huts and African drums. And lo and behold! this year he had imported and exhibited, alongside of a group of Sioux Indians living as they lived, a colony of Puerto Ricans, living as they lived, in their little thatched houses, and making the so-called "panama" hats. These jÃbaros were from Cabo Rojo, a coast town noted for the excellent straw hats made there for a century or so. And they ALL had hookworm. A most intimate friendship sprang up between the young military doctor and these homesick sons and daughters of Borinquen, who were perfectly delighted to find someone who could speak to them in their own tongue, and to whom they could complain —for the jÃbaro loves to complain. They were useful to me not only as sources for a continuation of my study, but also as living examples of this new disease, on which I now was asked to discourse at Me annual meeting of the Westchmer County Medical Society. I did so; and no detail was missing—even the sacred eggs were brought into the glaring sunlight of New York's sophistication.
↻...done
posted morning of August second, 2013: 5 responses
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What I'm looking for is that the spectator, too, that he take the time to reflect. I bid him place himself before some images that demand he look at them from within. ... that he make the effort to wonder what's coming; or better, how to perceive what has come. Look, you see nothing. It's completely abstract: an image composing itself.
Juan Carlos Bracho
Sólo cerrando puertas detrás de uno se abren ventanas hacia el porvenir por JCB
posted morning of August second, 2013: 2 responses
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posted morning of August second, 2013: Respond
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Monday, July 29th, 2013
In Egypt, the sunken city of Thonis is brought to light.
posted evening of July 29th, 2013: Respond
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Sunday, July 28th, 2013
por Jeremy Osner
en sà mismo se refleja múltiples veces
demasiadas
no se puede tomarlo
en serio
no me puedo contarme
el relato
pero sÃ, esculpiéndome debo
admitir
los caracteres
(es decir,)
mi sentido tenue
de personalidad
requiere
que estas sensibilidades
alrededor de mÃ
se permitan ser
válidas
posted afternoon of July 28th, 2013: Respond
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Saturday, July 27th, 2013
por Félix Fojas
tr. Jeremy Osner
Pica pica
Rasguña
El amor es herido
Y la lujuria es costra
posted evening of July 27th, 2013: Respond
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por J Osner
(compárese)
ahora estoy en mi habitation
esperando
que se termine de llover
mientras suena
el teléfono.
contesto y me dices
que eres furiosa
pero no se me importa
ni un carajo.
ya largo tiempo
estoy de pie en la calle
enfrente del teatro
esperando que se termine
esta acción tanto larga
pero no apenas
ha empezao.
posted evening of July 27th, 2013: Respond
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Las cigarras tintinean a los lados de la calle donde vivo. En la habitación de mi hija cantan los pájaros. Me siento en la
cocina escuchando el refrigerador y a mi hija que corta pan y no habla. Bibo. Afuera en cualquier esquina hablan
lentamente.
Eses caracteres no deben ser personajes que podrÃamos un dÃa encontrar — basta que existen
— en cualquier lugar están hablando inquietos, de pie y sudando un poco. Más probablemente escuchan también las
cigarras y inventan falsificaciones sobre nosotros.
Gabriel Enolo encienda el cigarillo y harto sonrÃe a su hermano. Se pregunta si deberÃan volver al centro del ciudad. Gabriel no cree que el dealer de Enrique Josner esté viniendo — ni a esa esquina ni a esa hora aunque Enrique
Josner
reclama que sÃ.
Gruñe en el atardecer y echa un vistazo a su reloj. Oiga, Rico, debo coger el bus. Se voltea hacia la avenida. Escucha un voz en la oscuridad; mira atrás y en la penumbra de la farola los ve hablando. Piensa en su hermano.
posted morning of July 27th, 2013: Respond
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Friday, July 26th, 2013
posted evening of July 26th, 2013: Respond
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Aprecio la observación de Pamuk en "Mario Vargas Llosa y la litaratura del tercer mundo" (ensayo de su collección Otros Colores) de como Vargas Llosa hace uso de una yuxtaposición Faulkneriana de escenarios varios y saltas en tiempo. Me intriga mucho la manera en que esas escenas se van desenrollando.
Lo que Vargas Llosa en Santuario alaba — la yuxtaposición de escenarios y las saltas en tiempo — queda aún más en evidencia en las novelas de Vargas Llosa mismo. Hace con maestrÃa uso de esa estrategia — cortando despiadosamente entre las voces, los cuentos, los diálogos — en Death in the Andes.
posted evening of July 26th, 2013: Respond
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