Ira Glass: Siri, where do you come from?
Siri Software: I, Siri, was designed by Apple in California.
Ira Glass: Where were you manufactured?
Siri Software: I’m not allowed to say.
Ira Glass: Why?
Siri Software: Good question. Anything else I can do for you?
(From This American Life #454)
View →Six weeks ago I took a picture of this cardboard woman on a street market near my house. A couple of days ago, filmmaker Julien Donada posted the picture on the right.
We commented briefly on the subject (what is my woman doing there! —said I. Incredible! —said he.) through Instagram. Today doing a quick Google search, I discovered that this woman might not be the only thing we have in common.
Paraphrasing Ortega y Gasset (the real one): «We are we and our coincidence».
View →Poet Aurelio Asiain in Kyoto, yesterday.
Filmmaker Paul Grivas in Paris, yesterday (at 9h27).
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Well I do, actually, want to know the answer to the skinny jeans and white shoes one… (the rest came fully explained in the assembly instructions manual, at least in mine).
(artwork by William Powhida Graphite, watercolor, and colored pencil on paper, 2011)
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The Paper Mate felt pen is my favorite pen. I used to write with vintage or nice fountain pens the same way I used to like avant-garde music and experimental poetry (or pretend I did). For the past eight or so years I have only used this kind of felt pen. I know all the lyrics to Rihanna’s Only Girl and I have TIna Fey’s audiobook in my iPod.
I wonder if the Paper Mate felt pen is a French thing (Françoise Sagan is portraited in her biopic writing only with blue Paper Mate felt pens), they are very hard to find in Mexico, even though they are made there.
Maybe they are one of those things, like scooters for adults or middle aged women using those small leather backpacks, that the world stopped using in 1989 and are still mandatory for French bureaucrats and elementary students.
View →Yo no permito que nadie me diga
Que no comprende los antipoemas
Todos deben reír a carcajadas.
Para eso me rompo la cabeza
Para llegar al alma del lector.
Déjense de preguntas.
En el lecho de muerte
Cada uno se rasca con sus uñas.
Además una cosa:
Yo no tengo ningún inconveniente
En meterme en camisa de once varas.
De Nicanor Parra en Versos de salón (1962)
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