If

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

If you can keep your head when all about you
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
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‘Just right’

Do not wait: the time will never be ‘just right’. Start where you stand, and work whatever tools you may have at your command and better tools will be found as you go along. –Napoleon Hill

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Un post por tuit

y un dos tres por mí y todos mis compañeros opinólogos de la tuitósfera.

Es decir.

Escribir un post detrás de cada tuit que publiquemos con la finalidad de echar más basura a la mierda cibernética de información en la que nos sumergimos, regodeándonos del ego.

Por ejemplo:

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Después de ver el primer episodio de Black Mirror me dio la sensación de  vivir en la generación de los publicistas, en la que el guión funciona a base de una gran idea que se debe explotar o vender, donde los personajes y la historia caen como la materia y la luz en un hoyo negro, sin escapatoria, perdiendo forma y dimensión, sin contexto real, a merced del plotting device.

Alguien me dijo que eso se llama deux ex machina. Que es la firma de un escritor perezoso, eso de crear personajes no creíbles en sí y fuera de sí para hacer funcionar la trama o la venta o lo que sea.

PD. Post patrocinado por los productores de The Scary Door de Futurama.

 

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I have become comfortably numb

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La definición de Comfortably Numb: I think I had tendencies toward depression from quite young. It became really acute when I was sort of twenty-five to twenty-eight was a dark time. It’s that absence of feeling — and it’s even the absence of hope that you can feel better. And it’s so difficult to describe to someone who’s never been there because it’s not sadness. Sadness is — I know sadness — sadness is not a bad thing. You know? To cry and to feel. But it’s that cold absence of feeling — that really hollowed-out feeling.
La definición es de J.K. Rowling. “Comfortably Numb” de Pink Floyd. Y el estado es mío

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So be addicted

Choose life, choose Twitter, Facebook, Instragram, and hope that someone somewhere cares…
Trainspotting 2!!! Yeah!!!! And watch history repeat itself…. Choose your reality tv and and and then… then… take a deep breath. You’re an addict, so be addicted, just be addicted to something else… choose your future… choose life…

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Cayendo

Así estaba
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Así estoy
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Así caeré
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Hanging up the timeline

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The 10-year-old boy picked up the timeline which was lying there in front of him, and he lifted it up to his right eye as though it were a kaleidoscope, and suddenly he was able to see the moment-of-his-life where he was, the beginning, the end, and the entire course not just of his existence but of all of time in that one glance, in literally the blink of an eye. The sudden flash of the supposed Big Bang, the dinosaurs, all those other strange beasts and plants which he had never seen, and then – yes! his cat, the gatiti he missed so much – which had been hit by a car when he was 7 years old – and he also saw his grandparents, and his uncles and aunts… Then he saw himself, 1-year-old, sitting bareass on the tiny potty and crying his heart out because he didn’t have his diaper any more, and he saw himself three years ago, eating salt, under the table, hiding from his parents, and he saw himself looking at himself in a kaleidoscope, assembling and joining the figures of elements and beings from every part of time and space that were, that are and that will be, moving them all together in a kaleidoscopic rhythm, so that they were falling and dissolving into themselves, almost tripping and stumbling, and then reforming into the shapes of that which has been and that which will be, giant Jurassic ferns holding up a stream of tiny modern laparoscopic medical examining rooms, and enormous luminescent squid borne aloft by towers of light streaming out of Mexico City’s ancient, overcrowded and teeming borough of Iztapalapa where his parents would never take him…. and all the while, the boy never stops, he keeps creating new forms, new shapes and new elements from water, air, earth and fire, from waves of light, from sound and silence that seem to fill the very space.

He was totally engrossed, totally into it. But then –

His parents called, breaking the spell.

Time for dinner, come to the table. Stop playing now, come sit down before the food gets cold.

And so, ever so slowly, the work of millennia in a few truncated seconds, he lifted the line of time again, carefully – his timeline – looking at it one last time before putting it away, the way a samurai puts away his katana, his traditional sword, sheathing it safely…before the next battle.

Original title: Colgar la línea del tiempo (publicado el 09/04/2016)
Original text by Adriana Degetau
Translation by Miguel Tejada-Flores

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