"Des armes, des chouettes, des brillantes
Des qu'il faut nettoyer souvent pour le plaisir
Et qu'il faut caresser comme pour le plaisir
L'autre, celui qui fait rêver les communiantes"
Des Armes - Noir Desir
I am sitting on the 5th floor of the Kempinski Hotel. Looking for "guys with big guns". Maybe "looking for" is not the appropriate way to phrase what I am doing. Waiting for? Hoping they do not show up? Let's say I am here to make sure nothing weird happens.
The members of Parliament who came to Geneva for a conference are probably sound asleep in their rooms. I am giving the security guard eight hours of sleep while I make sure no one does something funny next to their doors.
I cannot say that I have a vast experience dealing with firearms. Until May this year, I had only seen a handgun once in my life. My grandfather decided to take it out of his closet and have me point at the wall of his room. It was heavy and cold. I was shaking, thinking of the damage that this little object could bring with it.
Since May of this year I feel surrounded by firearms. I see them everyday.
A week ago I was riding the bus to work. A Swiss soldier sat next to me. He was carrying a rifle. He put it down on the floor, its point staring at me. "Should I tell him he is making me uncomfortable?" I thought. "Maybe if I say something clever like 'I don't feel like dying today, care to move it away?' he would be less offended." I did not say anything. My eyes fixed on the lethal machine, then on the careless holder, who was looking out the window, not minding the rest of the world.
I was warned beforehand that, while hoping not to see any guns tonight, I would see interesting stuff. I have been sitting next to a table in the corridor for three hours now and I already have a few stories.
First, there was the guy who decided to transit the corridor wearing a white skirt, white shirt and complimentary sandals. He roamed the corridors for a good half an hour. I have yet to investigate how he came from the same side each time.
Then, an Asian couple came along. Probably from the hotel lobby, because they were not wearing enough clothing to have been outside. She was walking in zig-zag, gagging. He was holding her but looking away with disgust and probably wishing she had not been so stupid to drink so much. Yes, I can see the vomit from my spot and I am not happy. Someone came and asked me if he should vacuum, but I said no, the noise would not be welcome.
And then, a young Italian-Arabic young man came out of his room. He stood in front of me and said: "You are beautiful". I pressed the walkie-talkie button by accident. "Thanks?" I replied. He then asked: "Are you working for the Israeli guy?". I did not say a thing. "I will come back very drunk, I am very sorry in advance. I will ask you for your number." he said, pressed the elevator button and waived and smiled for hours before finally leaving. Now, making up a fake number....
I was not pleased when a creepy guy with a turbant came to me to say there was vomit outside his room and he wanted it cleaned. I explained that I was not working for the hotel and, I admit it, got very scared and pressed the walkie-talkie button. Well, he was scary and asking me who I was working for!!
Oh! The guy with the prostitute!!! Yes. How could I forget them? And they were staring at me like I was the one doing something sort of awkward. Ha.
4 a.m. and still awake. Second Red Bull. Two coffees. About four hotel employees walked by the vomit and promised to get someone to clean it but it is still there.
The flood of hotel guests diminished considerably, and I am trying to stay alert to the possible coming and going of escorts. I think I missed the exit of the one who gave me a look before. Maybe she is spending the night?
An employee from the hotel finally came to clean the mess, spread all along the 5th floor. I feel bad for him, and feel like waking up the rude girl who cannot drink.
He cannot vacuum the mess, so he decided to use a mop and makes it even worse. He then comes back and forth, bringing along pieces of a black rubber that he uses to cover the dirty patches of carpet.
Finally, the Italian-Arab guy came back. At 6 am. I could smell the melange of cigarettes and alcohol from the distance. He wanted to know my name. I said I could not tell. He wrote his name, Ali, on a napkin, next to his number. "I know you will not call me, but here is my number" he said, and left. I was relieved that he was not in the mood to insist.
It is 6.30 a.m. and I just saw a huge man, dressed in a white dress, walking around, complimentary sandals, breathing heavily. His dress was see-through from the waist below. I am almost certain that the view of his rear back has rendered me traumatized. But the night is almost over.
The chief of security woke up and came to the corridor. He looks at me, asking what are the pieces of rubber on the carpet. While I explain, I see the Asian couple walking towards us. They walk over the patch that covers her vomit. He says "Bonsoir", and she laughs and tells him "Good morning."
I am just happy that I did not see a gun tonight.
viernes, 23 de octubre de 2009
Safety First
I wanted to write a comparison between safe sex and airport security checks three years ago and postponed it for some reason. It may have been because I didn't go through Heathrow Airport security during those years. Now that I had to take off my shoes and belt and walk along the dirty floor through the metal detector while bearing witness to several travelers being manually searched, I felt compelled to go back to this blog draft.
It is true that Heathrow is not one of the heaviest airports when it comes to security checks, although the rule that states that "any liquids under 100 ml must be placed in "a single, transparent, re-sealable plastic bag, which itself must not exceed 1 litre in capacity (approximately 20cm x 20cm)" caught me off guard, and made me realize that no one at Geneva Airport paid attention to the amount of liquid I was taking with me (oops).
But, back to my old comparison, two things that by themselves are perfectly enjoyable could come to be, according to my perception, product of a similar mutation generated by human race and its madness: traveling on a plane and sex. Security is obviously important in both cases: we don't want a bomb or weapons on a plane as we don't want STDs or sometimes babies in our beings. But to what extent can we take measures too far?
It is increasingly tedious to clear security in many airports of the world, while security officials look for every possible object that "may cause trouble on the plane". We have to take off garments, open our bags for strangers to inspect what we decided to take with us, get pulled apart if we look "like a terrorist". With the development of new technology, both on the side of those who want to blow up planes and those who want to avoid said explosions, the list of forbidden elements on planes and screening procedures gets longer.
With the spread of STDs and knowledge on them, precautions needed for sex have become similar to clearing security at the airport. I don't believe that condoms enter the list of new measures. It is the "metal detector of sex" (the first thing to be there, and will be on the menu in most cases). My point is rather that we have found new measures in order to feel protected. Many require STDs tests from their partners before having intercourse for the first time (or on various ocassions), many don't allow direct genital contact to avoid HPV, many have other strange procedures and techniques that I still have to learn. But I am positive that with new discoveries, paranoia has grown.
I am not saying that it is wrong to use protection or to avoid air terrorism; my aim is rather to appeal to common sense. New discoveries are wonderful, but we need to pick and choose healthy alternatives that dont't change the nature of our activities.
If we allow things to go too far, the day will come when the metal detector will effectively see through our clothes and we will test our partners for an overwhelming amount of diseases right before "getting it on" and we will forget about the basic reason of why we go to the airport and take our clothes off.
It is true that Heathrow is not one of the heaviest airports when it comes to security checks, although the rule that states that "any liquids under 100 ml must be placed in "a single, transparent, re-sealable plastic bag, which itself must not exceed 1 litre in capacity (approximately 20cm x 20cm)" caught me off guard, and made me realize that no one at Geneva Airport paid attention to the amount of liquid I was taking with me (oops).
But, back to my old comparison, two things that by themselves are perfectly enjoyable could come to be, according to my perception, product of a similar mutation generated by human race and its madness: traveling on a plane and sex. Security is obviously important in both cases: we don't want a bomb or weapons on a plane as we don't want STDs or sometimes babies in our beings. But to what extent can we take measures too far?
It is increasingly tedious to clear security in many airports of the world, while security officials look for every possible object that "may cause trouble on the plane". We have to take off garments, open our bags for strangers to inspect what we decided to take with us, get pulled apart if we look "like a terrorist". With the development of new technology, both on the side of those who want to blow up planes and those who want to avoid said explosions, the list of forbidden elements on planes and screening procedures gets longer.
With the spread of STDs and knowledge on them, precautions needed for sex have become similar to clearing security at the airport. I don't believe that condoms enter the list of new measures. It is the "metal detector of sex" (the first thing to be there, and will be on the menu in most cases). My point is rather that we have found new measures in order to feel protected. Many require STDs tests from their partners before having intercourse for the first time (or on various ocassions), many don't allow direct genital contact to avoid HPV, many have other strange procedures and techniques that I still have to learn. But I am positive that with new discoveries, paranoia has grown.
I am not saying that it is wrong to use protection or to avoid air terrorism; my aim is rather to appeal to common sense. New discoveries are wonderful, but we need to pick and choose healthy alternatives that dont't change the nature of our activities.
If we allow things to go too far, the day will come when the metal detector will effectively see through our clothes and we will test our partners for an overwhelming amount of diseases right before "getting it on" and we will forget about the basic reason of why we go to the airport and take our clothes off.
jueves, 22 de octubre de 2009
Silence
"Its, oh, so quiet
shhhh
shhhh
its, oh, so still
shhhh
shhhh
you are all alone
shhhh
shhhh
and so peaceful until......"
Bjork - It's oh so quiet
Thinking about silence, I remembered a political science class where we were discussing freedom of press and expression. Silence is deceiving.
A democratic country where the government is doing a good job will be less likely to find loud opposition in the press. At the same time, an authoritarian regime where the government is oppressing the press will probably lack in public criticism as well.
The same goes with relationships. A good relationship is full of silence. It means you are comfortable with one another and you do not need fill voids with vain words.
But silence can also result from the concealing of one's thoughts, for any given reason. Silence can be expressing any sort of discomfort or discontent with the other. Sometimes, people bear a sort of authoritarian regime within, hiding criticism towards their partner.
Political scientists have debated over centuries on an appropriate definition that would classify types of political systems. There is of course no agreement on how to classify what constitutes a democracy, but there is agreement on the fact that freedom of press and expression are a requirement of any good government. It is reading the silence what complicates judging whether there is a healthy freedom of speech.
The same goes with a new relationship. While one silence means everything is more than OK, the other silence is an avalanche of emotions waiting to be freed. A bulk of negative feelings that are camouflaged.
Political scientists have debated for a long time how to test the quality and nature of silence. Human beings have yet to find ways to understand each others' lack of expression.
shhhh
shhhh
its, oh, so still
shhhh
shhhh
you are all alone
shhhh
shhhh
and so peaceful until......"
Bjork - It's oh so quiet
Thinking about silence, I remembered a political science class where we were discussing freedom of press and expression. Silence is deceiving.
A democratic country where the government is doing a good job will be less likely to find loud opposition in the press. At the same time, an authoritarian regime where the government is oppressing the press will probably lack in public criticism as well.
The same goes with relationships. A good relationship is full of silence. It means you are comfortable with one another and you do not need fill voids with vain words.
But silence can also result from the concealing of one's thoughts, for any given reason. Silence can be expressing any sort of discomfort or discontent with the other. Sometimes, people bear a sort of authoritarian regime within, hiding criticism towards their partner.
Political scientists have debated over centuries on an appropriate definition that would classify types of political systems. There is of course no agreement on how to classify what constitutes a democracy, but there is agreement on the fact that freedom of press and expression are a requirement of any good government. It is reading the silence what complicates judging whether there is a healthy freedom of speech.
The same goes with a new relationship. While one silence means everything is more than OK, the other silence is an avalanche of emotions waiting to be freed. A bulk of negative feelings that are camouflaged.
Political scientists have debated for a long time how to test the quality and nature of silence. Human beings have yet to find ways to understand each others' lack of expression.
domingo, 26 de julio de 2009
10 months
I was afraid when we decided to end it. Afraid I would never love again. Clinging to you, my first love. But we were hurting each other. And you told me: you will fall in love again. Not only that, but you will fall in love a million times more. Sometimes it will last for years, or for a split second. I didn't believe you then, I felt angry and lonely.
Some years went by, I could still call you, you were still there. I would call you in the middle of the night to hear your deep voice, tell you what was bothering me. I never woke you up, you were always awake at night. And you understood.
The 28th of September of 2008 came, and it happened. And I heard through your friend. And I felt the biggest emptiness in my whole life. I had lost you forever. You were not going to answer my middle of the night calls.
During these 10 months I have wanted to tell you so many things.
I didn't go to your funeral, I'm very sorry. I told everyone it was because I had an exam that day, but I couldn't care less about that exam. I could not face seeing you leave forever.
I heard that that girl you dated who was a bit weird and pretended to be bisexual entered the funeral home with a red rose and left it on your casket. In my mind she was dressed in black and wearing sunglasses. Maybe a big hat.
Your father was holding a kadish, his hands shaking, his eyes watery and lost in that room full of people. He keeps that kadish in the notebook he takes everywhere, next to the picture of your son. I learnt a few months later, when I met with him for coffee, that he dressed you up with a white sheet, it was the only thing he could find in a city so far away from Capital. And he put a kipa with a maguen david on your chest.
I heard there was a drawing of a green flower for you, I think your sister could have made it.
Your mom told me, when we finally gathered the strenght to meet, that you had come to life to teach us things. And when I think back about these words you told me when we decided we weren't going to be together again, I can only say that I agree with her.
I went back to that beach where we spent one summer. Your name was engraved in a stone next to the bus station where I picked you up that time. I stared at your name. It was raining and one of us had to go inside the station to buy a ticket. I stayed in the car, my eyes fixed in your name. Ivan.
I was stupid to think it would be easy to go to that place again, you were everywhere. I played some Smashing Pumpkins songs to you at the beach and walked around, remembering the time when we built that sand volcano and lit a newspaper so smoke would come out of it. It was a great volcano.
Before leaving the country I made sure I guided your sister through your cds. I know you had asked me to do it if this happened. It was a long time ago but I felt like you were with us while we played "The trees", "In the arms of sleep".... or "Birds in your garden".
I am sure you would have loved the new Jarvis Cocker cd. We would have shared the same favorite song, I am sure.
It's been ten months since you left. And I don't blame you anymore. It would be selfish to blame you. But I wish you would've stayed a bit longer. Alfonsín passed away, and thousands of people took the streets. You would've loved to tale pictures of the masses of people congregated, the red and white flags. Strangers mourning together.
Michael Jackson passed away too, you would have been into that too.
Good things happened as well, but I know you are aware. Because when I took the plane, leaving everything behind, I knew you were smiling, proud.
It's been three years since you told me that I would fall in love a million times in a lifetime. And I can't say if that's the absolute truth or not. But I can say that, everyday, I take your words and live up to what you taught me.
Some years went by, I could still call you, you were still there. I would call you in the middle of the night to hear your deep voice, tell you what was bothering me. I never woke you up, you were always awake at night. And you understood.
The 28th of September of 2008 came, and it happened. And I heard through your friend. And I felt the biggest emptiness in my whole life. I had lost you forever. You were not going to answer my middle of the night calls.
During these 10 months I have wanted to tell you so many things.
I didn't go to your funeral, I'm very sorry. I told everyone it was because I had an exam that day, but I couldn't care less about that exam. I could not face seeing you leave forever.
I heard that that girl you dated who was a bit weird and pretended to be bisexual entered the funeral home with a red rose and left it on your casket. In my mind she was dressed in black and wearing sunglasses. Maybe a big hat.
Your father was holding a kadish, his hands shaking, his eyes watery and lost in that room full of people. He keeps that kadish in the notebook he takes everywhere, next to the picture of your son. I learnt a few months later, when I met with him for coffee, that he dressed you up with a white sheet, it was the only thing he could find in a city so far away from Capital. And he put a kipa with a maguen david on your chest.
I heard there was a drawing of a green flower for you, I think your sister could have made it.
Your mom told me, when we finally gathered the strenght to meet, that you had come to life to teach us things. And when I think back about these words you told me when we decided we weren't going to be together again, I can only say that I agree with her.
I went back to that beach where we spent one summer. Your name was engraved in a stone next to the bus station where I picked you up that time. I stared at your name. It was raining and one of us had to go inside the station to buy a ticket. I stayed in the car, my eyes fixed in your name. Ivan.
I was stupid to think it would be easy to go to that place again, you were everywhere. I played some Smashing Pumpkins songs to you at the beach and walked around, remembering the time when we built that sand volcano and lit a newspaper so smoke would come out of it. It was a great volcano.
Before leaving the country I made sure I guided your sister through your cds. I know you had asked me to do it if this happened. It was a long time ago but I felt like you were with us while we played "The trees", "In the arms of sleep".... or "Birds in your garden".
I am sure you would have loved the new Jarvis Cocker cd. We would have shared the same favorite song, I am sure.
It's been ten months since you left. And I don't blame you anymore. It would be selfish to blame you. But I wish you would've stayed a bit longer. Alfonsín passed away, and thousands of people took the streets. You would've loved to tale pictures of the masses of people congregated, the red and white flags. Strangers mourning together.
Michael Jackson passed away too, you would have been into that too.
Good things happened as well, but I know you are aware. Because when I took the plane, leaving everything behind, I knew you were smiling, proud.
It's been three years since you told me that I would fall in love a million times in a lifetime. And I can't say if that's the absolute truth or not. But I can say that, everyday, I take your words and live up to what you taught me.
jueves, 16 de julio de 2009
On why women want assholes
Before writing this, I should clarify that I am writing in English just to broaden the spectrum of readers, given that I am currently in Geneva and most of the people who may read this are fluent in this language.
I am leaving to Barcelona tomorrow. I have never been there before, and people tell me it is wonderful. I have, nevertheless, seen the movie "Vicky Cristina Barcelona". I don't know how it ends, I was watching it on a plane from Lima to Buenos Aires and it was just finishing when the plane started its descent, so they stopped showing movies. But I did see enough of it to get surprised when most of my female friends asked me to bring Javier Bardem - or replica- back from Barcelona. Why would all of my friends want me to bring back for them the self-centered, misogynous, selfish man embodied in this character? Why do my friends want to have in their hands a man that will probably never call them, or get bored and leave them after a few months - or weeks, to say the least? Why wouldn't they want the other guy? And why can't I remember the other guy's name?! The question in my head is - not for the first time in my life- why do women want assholes?
I don't think it's necessary to fill paragraphs with stories, we all know that most of us are most likely obsessed with the one who never called, who never calls, who for some misterious and incomprehensible reason can't reply text messages, who wants to be "just friends" (after they managed to take whatever on earth they wanted from us).
I am not saying that there are two types of men, I believe that men who behave in a reprehensible manner with some women can be the loveliest with other. But I can't get over our obsession to get those who evidently do not want us.
But sometimes, even if we realize this, we still wait for the text message of that guy who owes us a reply since last....month? and we don't even think about that guy who is always there, inviting us to places, replying text messages. It could be, I don't know, a natural tendency of women to masochism? an aversion to taking the easy path? Maybe it's not something that only happens to us women and we play the same tricks on men. Maybe no one notices that they are behaving like this towards others.
I seriously doubt that I can reach a conclusion in this post, but I accept comments on my line of argument from anyone.
As for me, I am taking a plane to Barcelona tomorrow, and will try to bring back men who are more worthy of their time to my friends than those who play incomprehensible games.
I am leaving to Barcelona tomorrow. I have never been there before, and people tell me it is wonderful. I have, nevertheless, seen the movie "Vicky Cristina Barcelona". I don't know how it ends, I was watching it on a plane from Lima to Buenos Aires and it was just finishing when the plane started its descent, so they stopped showing movies. But I did see enough of it to get surprised when most of my female friends asked me to bring Javier Bardem - or replica- back from Barcelona. Why would all of my friends want me to bring back for them the self-centered, misogynous, selfish man embodied in this character? Why do my friends want to have in their hands a man that will probably never call them, or get bored and leave them after a few months - or weeks, to say the least? Why wouldn't they want the other guy? And why can't I remember the other guy's name?! The question in my head is - not for the first time in my life- why do women want assholes?
I don't think it's necessary to fill paragraphs with stories, we all know that most of us are most likely obsessed with the one who never called, who never calls, who for some misterious and incomprehensible reason can't reply text messages, who wants to be "just friends" (after they managed to take whatever on earth they wanted from us).
I am not saying that there are two types of men, I believe that men who behave in a reprehensible manner with some women can be the loveliest with other. But I can't get over our obsession to get those who evidently do not want us.
But sometimes, even if we realize this, we still wait for the text message of that guy who owes us a reply since last....month? and we don't even think about that guy who is always there, inviting us to places, replying text messages. It could be, I don't know, a natural tendency of women to masochism? an aversion to taking the easy path? Maybe it's not something that only happens to us women and we play the same tricks on men. Maybe no one notices that they are behaving like this towards others.
I seriously doubt that I can reach a conclusion in this post, but I accept comments on my line of argument from anyone.
As for me, I am taking a plane to Barcelona tomorrow, and will try to bring back men who are more worthy of their time to my friends than those who play incomprehensible games.
viernes, 12 de diciembre de 2008
:)
felicidad
(Del lat. felicĭtas, -ātis).
1. f. Estado del ánimo que se complace en la posesión de un bien.
2. f. Satisfacción, gusto, contento. Las felicidades del mundo
3. f. Suerte feliz. Viajar con felicidad
Diccionario de la Real Academia Española
happiness
noun
trying to rediscover the happiness we once knew pleasure, contentment, satisfaction, cheerfulness, merriment, gaiety, joy, joyfulness, joviality, jollity, glee, delight, good spirits, lightheartedness, well-being, enjoyment; exuberance, exhilaration, elation, ecstasy, jubilation, rapture, bliss, blissfulness, euphoria, transports of delight.
happy |ˈhapē|
adjective ( -pier , -piest )
feeling or showing pleasure or contentment
• [ predic. ] ( happy about) having a sense of confidence in or satisfaction with (a person, arrangement, or situation)
• (of an event or situation) characterized by happiness : we had a very happy, relaxed time
PHRASES ( as) happy as a clam ( at high tide) extremely happy
Apple dictionary v. 2.0.2 (51.4)
félicité
Nom féminin singulier
- bonheur prodigué
- bonheur parfait
jueves, 11 de diciembre de 2008
La vida es una nube como esta
La vida es una nube como esta:
donde busco una correlación
la encuentro
pero correlación no significa causalidad
claro que no
y la relación entre mis variables no es
estadísticamente significativa.
Pruebo con el método del acuerdo
pero no estoy de acuerdo
en que sea útil.
y el de la diferencia
me es indiferente.
Quizás un experimento
con esta nube de puntos
que es la vida...
pero en la vida no se pueden mantener constantes las variables de control.
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