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Last Exodus,

Small rimbauds, we too will start tomorrow in search of our black, our other, all those foreigners who harbor. Mr. Chalk took the lead and, after walking the path of the North, one day moored in waters of the rising sun. Kowalski will do so shortly, I imagine that walk: it is what befits a man without a country other than their shoes. Give a forest and at its center something in your bones claim to settle there, bring it home there, stand erect in the midst of himself there. Turner and Turner will not: a change of skin, another death in another name.
We saved knives. Some cuts we make it visible. Campen wherever they want, that nobody lives here now.

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weather,

weather, the weather Latin :
1. distemper [of the elements or the moods of men].
2. inclement [weather] storm.
3. whim, intemperance intemperance.
4. indiscipline and insubordination.

Somewhere Red Harvest, the Continental agent reminds his fellow newcomers to Poisonville: "The evidence will not do. What we need is dynamite." Something here has been dislodged from the hinges of black genre, something is starting to walk into a wasteland of rubble. A Hercule Poirot chips have reached the bottom. The detective is no longer a covert temporal sequences reader, no longer a question of clarifying what happened, to put in place every element of the facts. This is another accident to happen again, to apply loads in the appropriate places for conflict to surface. The business is not in the interpretation of the structure but in the production of the event:

"" So that's the scientific method of work that you have the detectives. The truth, considering that you're a fat, forty, not home with anyone and stubborn, you have the less specific way of working of all I know.
"The plans are good sometimes," I said. And others, what is right is just stirring things up, it's okay if you're sufficiently hard to survive and keep your eyes peeled to see what interests you when you surface. "

Dashiell Hammett Red Harvest

Registered as a catalyst in the trend, the Continental agent must live in the conditional part in two reality-or survivor or corpse with clenched care as long as possible.
In Poisonville not sleep. In Poisonville sleep is supplied with gin and coffee and cold showers laden dawn. It roams looking for the right time for hunting, wandering without purpose, without thought of returning to a point source that meets the requirements of the domestic. Is the weather as exteriority, as life on the outside of the rules and plans, as exposure. Stand at the climate goes through converted to other corpses, and make effective in others the threat of exposure or, as the text, become blood-simple . Red Harvest
works with the logic of the myth of the descent into hell. For some, shall we say, it is possible to live even in a nation of devils. But how to describe the process of conversion to a creed of blood such as fever, sickness and poisoning recalls that, despite everything, life in the open is also a life in which can not go home a life in which can not return to oneself, a life outside of himself: "I have tough skin over the rest of my soul and, after walking between crimes for twenty years, I can study any kind of murder without seeing it more than daily bread, my job. But this deadly making plans to enjoy, no, that's not me. Is what this city has made me. "In such a situation, if something is is to even want to live otherwise, or close your eyes and listen for the coup. The Continental agent is immersed in the night of laudanum and Hell, outside and inside, follow its own course.

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Saturday, Main St.

enough to be at the right time on Main St. for when they arrive from the fields. These men, these beasts of burden back appear sunken city at dusk as heck arrived directly dusty desert. They know no father, no brother know, none of the fear of God home to their souls. Everything must be done in one night. Everything is double atonement morning bell.

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Breathing,

tucked At the first I only had time to cross the hand. The second or have seen it coming. Amid the smoke and music, no one seems to have realized, as I try not to move. The worst is not pain but felt that the hole you are going out the guts. The ragamuffins that has given me the wet does not worry me, these take little to open. Just breathe I take care of little, very soft, almost no air into the lungs, staying in the throat. I can not stand the feeling that I produced in the stomach to breathe just beyond my throat. The feeling that each breath is opened a little pit, and that only the pressure of my hands prevents it from falling all over the floor.

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Struggle,

I felt ribs crack, but I continue. For a while I noticed el sabor metálico que producen los golpes en la cara, pero todavía no he visto sangre. Por ahora me centro, encajo los golpes, e intento encontrar un hueco. Acepto el dolor. Paladeo el dolor. Lo disfruto como una lengua áspera que me lame el cuerpo. El sufrimiento no enseña nada; sufrir es siempre innecesario. El dolor, sin embargo, es un gran maestro que sólo es radical y docente cuando se lo acepta. Cuando uno lo niega y rechaza, comienza el sufrimiento. Otro golpe. Esta vez sí, noto una gota derramarse hasta mi boca. El simple notar del corrillo de la sangre, no los golpes, me hace derrumbarme. Justo entonces, el combate se acaba.

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Song in four deaths,

Andrei ate ground glass in a warm, spicy soup. It was always a bastard, kicking for the dog, kicking for children, also kicked for the wife and neighbors. She just wanted to finish, then did what everyone had thought. Phil

harvested beyond their property for one day. He did not light the candle on the table, he sailed a poker face. He had spent half his life cheating. Neither the closest it had been discussed as expected.

Bernard found a new lover. His wife, however, remained the same as always. If the first was known for her warm thighs, the second it was his hand in the massacre. Ended in a bowl exploded. A song remembers everything: Pig Bernard and wife. In his people still sing.

Jacob went straight on the last bend in the road. His skull ended up in the back seat. Long after I threw one at fault. The brake fluid reservoir appeared perforated. Finally it was agreed that both.

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The Stranglers, Death

Constant pressure and well located is sufficient to end the life of a type. No kid in the neighborhood you live with that in mind, but a slight start on the road chokes it makes clear. At thirteen or fourteen either of them has the strength to use a brake cable and eighteen, and some people choose to use their own thumbs, others perhaps later, and to overcome the tedium of the technique.
In business today traded the lead, without discussion. Fire under the neon lights, fire the more heat. Instead of us in the office, we manufactured, making links, fixing knots and respecting the silence of the dead to give us. There is no other way: we accompany him to his final agonizing strokes. We follow, accompanied by and leave the rest lying on the asphalt streets only then we through.

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routine

·

Of all that she could not wait I was so peor.Eso not know until the end. Meanwhile, it took a year of good night darling at the stroke of midnight brought erections barely on specific days, heat home made of the same phrases in every house, and always an eye to several decades distance travel, new kitchens, a nice dress for the holy family visit for Easter.

did not know that already killed her, he looked at her with trips and kitchens, clothing and visits and was killing her, my eyes on those afternoons embarrassed earthy seemed dead, but his death was what got fed up. I killed her to avoid looking like that again. No, that was later, much later, in the end, then. Kill her kill her because he was from the beginning there, living with us. The kill count to know then why kill and knowing that death was the reason for all this farce.

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A work in Little Italy,

leaden

The night was wild, black, throbbing, tense. A couple of hundred in advance were used to not thinking. Billy was at the wheel. We the type of Hester Street to Chinatown. When we reached the intersection with Mulberry Billy stood beside him and I slipped out of the car with the gun cutting nervous night. Before he could speak and was lying with his chest full of lead. Killing was easy in Little Italy. As we walked away I could see the thieves and whores, beggars and the manic, all those criminals out of their burrows stunted to rob the deli. We had time to get out away from there. Nobody called the cops until the poor fellow's clean.

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ephemeral spaces,

up a few days ago al metro en Colón una mujer portando una paloma acurrucada entre los brazos. El animal tenía un aspecto enfermizo.
Colón no es uno de esos lugares en los que alguien vaya a pararse a recoger a un animal enfermo.
Aquella mujer no parecía el tipo de mujer que se detendría a auxiliar a un bicho de la calle.

La compasión que se revela en este gesto me resulta, o, en concreto aquí me resulta, del todo indiferente. No tanto así, en cambio, el hecho de que el gesto supusiese una breve interrupción de ese continuo fluctuante que es la calle Colón, la parada de metro, el vagón. Interrupción sin estrategia, salto improvisado. Pienso entonces en lo dicho en El tedio en las calles , I think the picture of William Klein, Robert Frank, Saul Leiter, I think that expression of Manuel Delgado, "the city unless its architecture, all that does not stop it solidifies, and see that we space to open our meetings, it can work like hell to the plan, fire running through the streets in unpredictable directions.
There was no way to read the plan and then, you could not expect, that that pigeon sick that day would be part of the passage. No occupant of meters could foresee that someone would introduce such distortion in your life and you know it, probably would have avoided.

Somewhere Morelli says the other in the street gives us not a cinematic reality but rather as a photography. I think it is a perception of space where the substance of which lives overlap between the two forms, as is always the possibility that re-founded, without warning, take a snapshot to go about doing that which served as the backdrop of an urban complete panoramic providing the pieces for a collective biography. Biography tenuous, incomplete, difficult to follow the insidious tendency fragments appear when you least expect them, for their ability to be diluted in a moment. Some photographs of Klein-the best, I think, seem to stop at that instant when a pillar of salt, exorcised by the camera will jump into the arena as an agent of the ephemeral.

"The city unless its architecture," said Manuel Delgado, the real urban space, without hypostasis. "There is no choice but to agree to submit to the eyes and the initiatives of others. There is always interacts superficial, but any time you can meet unprecedented developments." If you need to be some tedium in urban life is the need to continue to forget that there nameless and, I fear, our ability to forget almost no limits. One begets oblivion appropriate gestures in appropriate locations, twisted logic that makes the streets just so we do not own which erases any attempt to return the ownership entirely to plan.

few days ago up to the subway in Columbus a dove carrying a sick woman huddled in the arms, but, alas, a dove sick leave too easily lead to oblivion. Tomorrow someone will come down to the subway with an alligator perfectly healthy as a gesture that reflects the invitation of another gesture, unprecedented development, the unexpected happened. Shock, leg bites and screams in a heaven underground. Still, some will undoubtedly have the scene under the noses go home like every day, died of boredom, dead.

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The tedium in the streets

(1) "We are bored in the city." Five words to describe a circle underground, the first five words of the text signed by Gilles Situationist Ivain titled "Formulary for a New Urbanism" . But there is still a larger ring in this urban hell: boredom, a way of killing the time of life that ties the boredom and fun, work and leisure, as paths forms an enclosure in which the hours just burnt. We blaze of boredom in the city.
Something makes me think that this death early related to some form of transfer an image disposed to represent our way of life on the streets. No escape from the grid, we think, do not escape the labyrinth, the repetition of the streets and then live as if our city was the developer of the planned city. We imagine occupying the cell, leaving the cell in a given movement in terms of a shift that is required to reoccupy the cell, the next cell. Caged animals on an idea, because even the existence of a planned urban reality is sufficient to guarantee a life locked in a grid.

(2) Marco Polo describes Emerald the Great Khan. Speaks a "water city" in which "a grid of canals and streets are a grid of overlap and intersect." He also speaks of a city where residents "do not know the tedium of traveling the same streets every day, because the combination always possible to water routes and land routes ensures a potentially infinite number of paths. But that's not all. Marco Polo noted that a hypothetical Emerald cartographic work should consider the fact that there "cats, thieves, lovers streets clandestine move higher and discontinuous, jumping from one rooftop to another, dropping from a high roundabout up to a balcony, along gutters with tightrope walkers step. "And so as" a map of Emerald should include, indicating inks of different colors, all these paths, solids and liquids, patents and hidden "(Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities ).

(3) Ask someone to draw a city. Very likely will appear before you represented something akin to the typical view of New York skyline. An outline, front view, space fabric hugging the air and an unfathomable mystery about possible paths of their inhabitants. Order now to draw your city. soon begin to receive the maze, spider web, no horizon line drawn through the eye of God, under which one can not live. There is no room here for the patent, there is no space for the occult. There is not a step to take.
Agents of ennui in our ways of living by a space conceived as the figures of the urban and invisible cities, are innumerable. Maybe one day unlikely, the fire that consumed the hours garment in the right place, and crashes all the streets. There are cobblestone streets, one could imagine, but an outline. That day we can say that that "fire in the brain of the people, not on the roof of the houses, and set off to walk to meet all the impossible.

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poetic machine,

Love the machine. The beauty of their movements precise, millimeter. A beauty that is meant to look raw, primitive human eye. A beauty that is found only in the eyes of the machine itself. The poetics of the dissection of movement, dividing the moment to represent thereby allowing the old man transformed, revealing the truth of the machine.

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The decrease


knew now

that this was not done, perhaps it was only the beginning. First his nose, his beautiful nose, her nose lucid and prescient dissolved gradually decreased to blend into a smooth-skinned anything in the middle of his face. After her ears began to be no more ears, almost shrunken stumps and added to either side of his head. But a head, what could be a head without them, their peripherals, but nevertheless essential? How does loss of attributes was his head to continue to merit such a name?

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God's suicide,

can still arise, nevertheless, a third hypothesis explored by the thought, only vaguely hinted at the mythological figure of deus otiosus . Is that by which God in His omnipotent majesty, the absence would not as a deprivation, but as the ultimate test of his creative power. Having given the Being, the Maker would also be nothing. The whole history of Being-God theology then subtract as payment in compliance with the supreme sacrifice, and the possibility of this hypothesis and its closing.

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Enter the Ghost

"... that something terrible is in every photograph:
the return of the dead."
Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida

Lewis Payne has died. Lewis Payne going to die. The photographic portrait, then, as the "crush of Time", as that space where "Time is stuck" in such a way that has already killed still has to go to die. The time of the portrait as a return, as the place of the spectral, as the showing of the dead in their non-death, then stopped and what happened to the unspeakable. Lewis Payne has died. Lewis Payne die on the gallows at the age of twenty years a July 7, 1865 that it always lies ahead. Alexander Gardner
take this image while Payne - hours earlier? "Days before? - Handcuffed expected time of execution. For Roland Barthes is the example, the "pure representation" of photographic noema , of \u200b\u200bthat "this has been" which is repeated until the inaudible after each shot. "This has been," this has given eyes in this interrupted time its gonna be a future that is now our past. But this future-past is precisely what is in the picture as it escaped. "Photography does not say (necessarily) what no longer, but only and no doubt what has been ." Lewis Payne
continues now and forever in your going to die so again tomorrow, as if not in his portrait would be future for him. Perhaps the warning, I might be thinking that it warns, and in his eyes, then I can afford to read the knowledge that every moment-every moment that time is atomized to ensure the camera, "every moment is denial of the possibility of death so that, in his not-be-future, he knows, Lewis Payne has been saved.

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The mask in the picture,

generally attributed to Abraham Lincoln that expression according to which, at a certain age every man has the face it deserves because it is what he himself has provided, the face that he has set. Refound the topic of the mask, this formulation is right to put us face to face with what is our responsibility to our gestures, our responsibility with this biography physiognomy expressed in our face as the memory of our successive mediations gesture designed to be enrolled in an environment at a gesturally human community itself mediated. From this angle I think the tradition of portrait photography and different techniques, by adding props to the human touch or explicitly run, try to evade this responsibility towards a photogenic here can be read as a loss of gestural memory.
In recognition of this responsibility as the subject of the portrait photograph identify the difference, for example, between a Disdéri and Nadar.

In 1963 Richard Avedon photograph CASBY William, "born a slave." I find it downright impossible to escape the vacuum of that expression, born a slave, escape the glass vacuum Likewise those eyes and in that failure, identify the correctness of the word of Roland Barthes in his saying that "the essence of Slavery is here laid bare "(Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida ). Slavery to be naked in his mask, its appearance as the memory of all the gestures of a slave, being born a slave, given once a face. The mention of the birth directs my attention to the accumulation of time which can be seen in the jaw, blows that fall curd. Then I remember that for Latinos the mask, person says the social role, to gestures that are required in the present society as free man or slave born, then too, points toward the gens , the lineage that enables them to one way or another presentation. William CASBY, injured his face, now appears as a mask even earlier, as a further memory deep, as the current manifestation of a charge or return to the act of the dead, lost lineage, names forgotten, old gestures of all slaves born.

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The Gleaners,

nobody talks about them, the discrete, those whose habits do not lend themselves to be monetized. No return for now to Bouvard and Pecuchet or Hanta, readers of strange races, because it seems that time brings the question of the survival of books and neglecting the fate of the reader. Yet still there, sometimes a few times, the reader is a figure of public . Were in that series of André Kertész taken in New York in 1974 and which indicates the possibility that some cults are spite of themselves, and Hanta-, as an inescapable imperative street that would lead to the piles of books evicted , with the drawers of bouquinistes , with shelves set, and standing in front of the old paper waiting to be told something from the stomach, a big YES! visceral, because these guys read the entrails. Maybe one day reach the book of death and then these bastards, they have not spent a nail in their culture, first made in August with both abandoned body and act followed, will go to hell forever. That day engulf one of the margins of the culture industry: the theme of gleaners of books will be considered settled.

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Europe, Ellis Island

was no longer Europe, it was still America. Or, if it were America, it was only in the form of anticipation of their needs, their fears encrypted twenty-nine questions - Whether a polygamist? Whether an Anarchist? Ever in prison or almhouse? - and a medical examination that could begin with careful observation of the decline of a gateway . A visual inspection and a few minutes before a naked body and the way back is written in chalk on the clothes: CT for trachoma, H for heart, K \u200b\u200bfor hernia, X for mental defect Suspected ...
Ellis Island was a frontier, the non-place where Europe came together to America, Europe feared the dispossessed who responded to the call released to the ocean - "Give me your tired, your poor, / Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free "- and an America for Europe and the fulfillment of the promise secular figure. A promise and reduced to mere chance as the game settled in one go.
Ellis Island was a threshold, the door to the Golden Door . On one side called Italians, Greeks, Irish, Russian or Polish, the other the voice of a Welcome to America was a United States citizen. Perec compared with the manufacturing process:

"At the end of the day, Ellis Island is not just a U.S. factory to a factory to process migrants immigrants to the American factory, as quickly and efficiently as industry Chicago butcher "

Georges Perec, Ellis Island

But along with the identification mechanism for the production of identity, together with the description of the human chain , slip on all accounts, also in that of Perec, the signs of the rite of passage: opening of the time, purifying last acquisition of a name. The old Europe that sanctifies doors and parties also met his death when American obligation to mark the cycles and changes.
Ellis Island is not Europe, is the limit. Not in our memory, but as our memory what he lacks, as the lost photos of the family album. It is the silence of those who did not pass, the display returned by a chalk mark too incriminating, of which twenty-nine questions were the timing of the confession. Europe is being defined from the outside as the home they can always ungrateful to die again weighed and anarchists.

- Whether a polygamist? Whether an Anarchist? Ever in prison or almhouse?
- Da, da, da ...

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The assault,

When Padlock seized a package of snuff the pocket of a fool were given entirely to the big smoke session. Held an empire of empty hangars and factories ruined wagons in sidings and warehouses that smell not even wet cardboard succumb to the rigors of summer. Everything they owned. Everything. Moguls rotten in the markets, if they were not invited to the table of the world would be ready to climb anyway and sit down to eat.

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neophytes and experts














Manuel González Prada Lima said that the diarists were able to sleep autocratic and wake anarchists. If the writer read the sports following the victory on Saturday Kina Malpartida 20, would not be surprised to see that in the land of a thousand wonders our scribes also neophytes and dawn sleep experts.

now appears that many who yesterday could not tell a straight jab or a hook cross have become the overnight specialists in boxing. I refer specifically to those who have left to talk about a media circus and that's rival Kina was the victim of nothing short of an ambush where everything was cooked in advance. Unaware

perhaps these enthusiastic about the nature of boxing professional. The trajectory of a boxer is usually almost always short-lived. For a fighter to the end of the race is always just around the corner and that's why managing it requires a combination of experience, tact, shrewdness and professionalism. In this regard, it is essential that a boxer's rivals are carefully chosen before they reach stellar levels or face a top-level fighters. That's why most professional bouts in the world (perhaps up to 90 percent) are what Americans call "mismatches", ie an unequal confrontation where there is a favorite and an underdog or weaker. Translated

the language of football, (whose misfortunes daily benefit these new specialists) Kina Malpartida ask all their defenses in front of the best in the world is like asking the "U" or the classic dispute Alianza Lima all weekends and criticize them for playing against Inti Sport Gas or Huancayo. Invite these critics to review the professional record of the great Muhammad Ali, where you will find that the first defense of his heavyweight title after defeating George Foreman in Zaire was before a package name illustrious Chuck Wepner. O to analyze the record in Sugar Ray Leonard, who won the welterweight title against Puerto Rican virtuoso Wilfred Benitez, just to defend a months later against a Briton named Dave Green. Those who know boxing remember that the greatest virtue of this subject of the crown was to stop the blows of the opponent with the face.

Still, we do Halana Dos Santos is the boxing equivalent of Inti Gas. Is a boxer of some limitations and certainly less than Kina Malpartida, but someone who came to dispute in a dignified way the lightweight world title in Italy, stoically resisting the onslaught of the champion Laura Tavecchio for ten rounds and losing by a narrow margin of points . Do not fall into the error or the meanness of spare praise for our first world boxing champion or how pulverized his opponent in the historic evening Dibós. Do not pollute this magical night with the defects of footballing sports journalism. And remember again the emphatic word of Don Manuel González Prada in his essay on our journalism: "If no crime in renting the pen, so there, who knows more, to disseminate a science that does not possess."

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moral distance,

"Victims"? Do not be melodramatic. Look down there. "You would feel compassion for some of those little black dots, if it stops moving? If you offer $ 20,000 for every dot that stopped, would I say that I keep my money or would you begin to calculate the dots you'd be able to stop? [...] I'm afraid I do not see the things clearly. Nobody thinks in terms of human beings, governments do not. Why would we do it ourselves? They speak of the people, the proletariat ... and I of fools and weaklings, which is the same. "

Harry Lime, The Third Man

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The true promise of Peruvian boxing

Maicel Jonathan may be on everyone's lips and on all screens, but the best kept secret in boxing Peruvian named Carlos Zambrano Cordova, a 24-year chinchano living in New Jersey and is undefeated in seven professional fights . An additional fact: his great-uncle by the name of Mauro Mina Baylon.

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Fango,

cursed the land of fucking that county. Cursed every inch of the heavy clay soil and the state of Alabama and knew that justice would not come to the dogs and heard barking on the edge of fields or the canyons of the Woods or McGuire, but the ballast sludge that added to her feet.
The steps were completed. Hang a rag of the first tree they could find and that would rag him, and ten inches of mud caked on their shoes would pull his body to the neck desconyuntarle for re-land between the land.

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Pencil Genital

·

killed him with a pencil. While sleeping, he had seven holes in his chest. I could not bear his genius.

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Stratocaster,

Thus, Officer I swear! I came home and said 'Baby, I've been fired, "and she" are nothing but a lazy son of a bitch, Jimmy! If spent at work the same as the bottle would be rich! But you've drunk all the dough and we have no for a rotten potato. " Do you think I said something to comfort me? Bullshit! What we do not have for a rotten potato! But he was right. See agent ... Lewis, I can call Lou ? Look Lou, if I bring that bitch the most rotten and stinking potato land she knew so cook a tender beef sauce with fresh figs and nuts. I do not know how to fuck get it, but it's true! You know what this is, right Lou? Damn, we all know. There comes a time in life that you settle for a roof, a pussy, a car and a mangy dog. Why the hell would I kill for the sake , after enduring so many years? So to break his skull not climb up and grabs the guitar. But Oh, cursed (blessed) guitar! The culprit is that guitar, Lou, trust me! The completely scratched those chords sounded angry and guttural, coming from a black cavity and indecent they brought with genital warmth, animal, cavernosa, you know, Lou? And then the sexual power and deep so sensually rubbing against the belly. I could not even think to understand what was happening, because suddenly came from the perineum lightning I strained back, forcing the chest to look desperate, the sky in an arc impossible and frantic. I felt the intestines contracted with strength and how I was out of breath for a few seconds. Suddenly the reality was sublime for a moment and appeared purple haze that that scattered everywhere. And there I was, guitar, dirty dog \u200b\u200bhowling, purple haze, and she ran to the toilet, screaming crazy ... what do you think, Lou?
- Damn Jimmy, I do not know! No one knew that Fender could do this .
"Me neither, Lou. I tried only a few chords ...