Aphrodite, Eros y Psyche

Afrodita [la ‘surgida de la espuma’]  nació de la espuma del mar cerca de Pafos (Chipre) después de que Crono cortase durante la Titanomaquia los genitales a Urano con una hoz adamantina y los arrojase tras él al mar. En su Teogonía, Hesíodo cuenta que los genitales «fueron luego llevados por el piélago durante mucho tiempo. A su alrededor surgía del miembro inmortal una blanca espuma y en medio de ella nació una doncella» ya adulta. Este mito de Venus (el nombre romano de Afrodita) nacida adulta, Venus Anadiómena (‘Venus saliendo del mar’),¹³ fue una de las representaciones icónicas de Afrodita, famosa por la admiradísima pintura de Apeles, hoy perdida, pero descrita por Plinio el Viejo en su Naturalis Historia.

El nacimiento de Venus de Sandro Botticelli (1485).

Por esto, Afrodita es de una generación anterior a la de Zeus. Homero cuenta en el libro V de la Ilíada otra versión sobre su origen, según la cual sería hija de Dione, quien era la diosa oracular original («Dione» significa simplemente ‘diosa’, forma femenina de Δíος, ‘diosa’, el genitivo de «Zeus») en Dódona. Según Homero, Afrodita, aventurándose en batalla para proteger a su hijo Eneas, es herida porDiomedes y vuelve con su madre, postrándose de rodillas para ser reconfortada. «Dione» parece ser equivalente a Gea, la Madre Tierra, a quien Homero trasladó al Olimpo y alude a un hipotético panteón protoindoeuropeo original, con dios jefe (Di-) representado por el cielo y el rayo y la diosa jefa (forma femenina de Di-) representada como la tierra o el suelo fértil. La propia Afrodita fue llamada a veces «Dione». Una vez que el culto a Zeus hubo usurpado el oráculo-robledo de Dódona, algunos poetas lo tuvieron por padre de Afrodita.

El principal centro de adoración a Afrodita permaneció en Pafos, al suroeste de la costa de Chipre, donde la diosa del deseo había sido adorada desde mucho tiempo atrás como Ishtar y Astarté. Se dice que desembarcó tentativamente primero enCitera, un lugar de parada para el comercio y la cultura entre Creta y el Peloponeso. Así quizás tengamos pistas del camino del culto original a Afrodita desde el Levante hasta el continente griego.

Algunos autores consideran que Afrodita era hija de Talasa, la personificación femenina del mar, y Zeus.

Afrodita y Psique Eros y Psique

Afrodita aparece como un personaje secundario en la historia de Eros y Psique, que aparecía al principio como una digresión narrada por una anciana en la novela de Lucio Apuleyo, El asno de oro, escrita en el siglo II a. C. En ella Afrodita estaba celosa de la belleza de una mujer mortal llamada Psique. Pidió a Eros que usara sus flechas doradas para hacer que Psique se enamorase del hombre más feo del mundo. Eros accedió pero terminó enamorándose él mismo de Psique, al pincharse con una flecha dorada por accidente.

Mientras tanto, los padres de Psique estaban preocupados porque su hija siguiera soltera. Consultaron un oráculo que les dijo que ella no estaba destinada a ningún amante mortal, sino a una criatura que vivía en la cima de cierta montaña, a quien incluso los dioses temían. Eros había preparado al oráculo para que dijera esto. Psique se resignó a su destino y subió a la cumbre de la montaña, pidiéndole a los ciudadanos que la seguían que la dejaran y le permitiesen afrontar sola su destino. Allí Céfiro, el viento del oeste, la bajó flotando suavemente hasta una cueva. Psique entró y se sorprendió de hallarla llena de joyas y adornos. Eros le visitaba cada noche en la cueva y hacían el amor apasionadamente. Le pidió solo que no encendiese jamás ninguna lámpara porque no quería que Psique supiera quién era (sus alas le hacían inconfundible). Sus dos hermanas, celosas, la convencieron de que su marido era un monstruo y que debía clavarle una daga. Así que una noche encendió una lámpara, pero reconoció a Eros al instante y dejó caer su daga. Una gota de aceite caliente cayó sobre el hombro de Eros, le despertó y huyó, diciendo:
«¡El amor no puede vivir donde no hay confianza!»

Cuando Psique contó a sus celosas hermanas mayores, éstas se regocijaron secretamente y cada una de ellas fueron por separado a la cima de la montaña e hicieron como Psique les había dicho para entrar en la cueva, esperando que Eros las preferiría a ellas. Eros seguía con el corazón roto y no las cogió, por lo que murieron al caer hasta la base de la montaña.

Psique buscó a su amante por buena parte de Grecia, tropezando finalmente con un templo a Deméter, donde el suelo estaba cubierto de montones de grano mezclado. Empezó a ordenar el grano en montones ordenados y, cuando hubo terminado, Deméter le habló, diciéndole que la mejor forma de encontrar a Eros era buscar a su madre, Afrodita, y ganarse su bendición. Psique encontró un templo a Afrodita y entró en él. Afrodita le asignó una tarea similar a la del templo de Deméter, pero le dio un plazo imposible de cumplir. Eros intervino, pues aún la amaba, e hizo que unas hormigas ordenaran el grano por ella. Afrodita se enfureció por este éxito de Psique y le dijo que fuese a un campo donde pastaban unas ovejas doradas y consiguiese lana de oro. Psique fue al campo y vio las ovejas, pero fue detenida por el dios del río que tenía que cruzar para llegar al campo. Éste le dijo que las ovejas eran malas y crueles y podían matarla, pero que si esperaba hasta mediodía, las ovejas irían a buscar la sombra en el otro lado del campo y se dormirían, y que entonces podría agarrar la lana que quedaba enganchada en las ramas y la corteza de los árboles. Psique así lo hizo y Afrodita se enfureció todavía más al ver que había sobrevivido y superado su prueba.

Por último, Afrodita afirmó que el estrés de cuidar a su hijo, deprimido y enfermo como resultado de la infidelidad de Psique, había provocado que perdiese parte de su belleza. Psique tenía que ir al Hades y pedir a Perséfone, la reina del inframundo, un poco de su belleza que Psique guardaría en una caja negra que Afrodita le dio. Psique fue a una torre, decidiendo que el camino más corto al inframundo sería la muerte. Una voz la detuvo en el último momento y le indicó una ruta que le permitiría entrar y regresar aún con vida, además de decirle cómo pasar al perro Cerbero, Caronte y los otros peligros de dicha ruta. Psique apaciguó a Cerbero con un pastel de cebada y pagó a Caronte un óbolo para que le llevase al Hades. En el camino, vio manos que salían del agua. Una voz le dijo que les tirase un pastel de cebada, pero ella rehusó. Una vez allí, Perséfone dijo que estaría encantada de hacerle el favor a Afrodita. Una vez más pagó a Caronte y le dio el otro pastel a Cerbero para volver.

Psique abandonó el inframundo y decidió abrir la caja y tomar un poco de la belleza para sí misma, pensando que si hacia esto Eros le amaría con toda seguridad. Dentro estaba un «sueño estigio» que la sorprendió. Eros, que la había perdonado, voló hasta su cuerpo y limpió el sueño de sus ojos, suplicando entonces a Zeus y Afrodita su permiso para casarse con Psique. Éstos accedieron y Zeus hizo inmortal a Psique. Afrodita bailó en la boda de Eros y Psique, y el hijo que éstos tuvieron se llamó Placer o (en la mitología romana) Voluptas.
Consortes y descendientes de Afrodita

Deidades		Mortales
Ares Anteros Deimos Eros Fobos Harmonía Hímero Dioniso Himeneo Príapo	Hefesto Hermes Hermafrodito Peito Rodos Tique	Adonis Anquises Eneas Butes Érice Faetón Astinoo Kratos

La Quintrala

Catalina de los Ríos y Lisperger (*Santiago de Chile, 1604 - †1665), más conocida como La Quintrala, fue una terrateniente chilena de la época colonial, famosa por su belleza y la crueldad con la que trataba a sus inquilinos y esclavos. Se convirtió en un ícono del abuso y la opresión colonial. Su figura, fuertemente mitificada, pervive en la cultura popular de Chile como el epítome de la mujer perversa y abusadora. Para tildar a una mujer de abusadora en Chile se le dice "Quintrala".

Contenido  [ocultar] 1 Biografía 1.1 Matrimonio 1.2 Amantes 1.3 Terrateniente y empresaria. El Ingenio 1.4 Intervención de la justicia 1.5 Últimos años 2 Legado 2.1 Artículos literarios 2.2 Libros 2.3 Filmografía 2.4 Ópera 3 Referencias 4 Enlaces externos

Las hilanderas: El mejor o ninguno!

Source
'The Best or None'In the 19th century, references to spinsters noted that they were not uninterested in marriage -- only disinterested in the pool of men that were available. "[M]iddle-class spinsters, as well as their married peers, took ideals of love and marriage very seriously, and ... spinsterhood was indeed often a consequence of their adherence to those ideals. ... They remained unmarried not because of individual shortcomings but because they didn't find the one 'who could be all things to the heart.'"^[2]

Also in the 19th century, at least one editorial encouraged women to remain choosy in selecting a mate -- even at the price of never marrying. An editorial in the widely popular Peterson's Magazine entitled "Honorable Often to Be an Old Maid" advised women: "Marry for a home! Marry to escape the ridicule of being called an old maid? How dare you, then, pervert the most sacred institution of the Almighty, by becoming the wife of a man for whom you can feel no emotions of love, or respect even?"^[2

 

A song entitled "Poor Old Maids", containing the lyrics "We're all in a willing mind / if the men would be so kind / as to wed the lame and blind, poor old maids"

Noreena Hertz on The Silent Takeover

Noreena Hettz is an English economist, author and campaigner. She is an expert on economic globalisation.
In her 2002 book The Silent Takeover: Global Capitalism and The Death of Democracy, Professor Hertz warned that unregulated markets, corporate greed, and over-powerful financial institutions would have serious global consequences that would impact most heavily on the ordinary citizen. Following the financial meltdown and recession of 2008-09, many commentators have described Professor Hertz as a visionary.
Source
MOYERS: All over the world there have been outbreaks of protest against globalization like those we just saw in Bolivia. My next guest knows first hand about those protests, and she's written a book on why people have taken to the streets. It's called, THE SILENT TAKEOVER, and it's already a best seller in England where the Sunday TIMES OF LONDON named it one of the year's best.

Noreena Hertz was born in England, received her MBA from the Wharton School of Business and her Ph.D in economics from the University of Cambridge, where she is Associate Director of the Centre for International Business. Ten years ago she helped Russia organize its first stock market. Welcome to NOW.

HERTZ: Thank you.

MOYERS: Tell my audience what you mean by THE SILENT TAKEOVER.

HERTZ: Governments have been ceding power to big multinational corporations in the market. We see the manifest in a variety of ways. Where governments are giving up power to big international institutions like the World Trade Organization or NAFTA, which are disabling governments' ability to protect the rights of their own people.

MOYERS: How much is the real issue, those international finance — institutions that you talk about, the World Bank, the IMF,the World Trade Organization. I mean, to whom are they ultimately accountable? THE ECONOMIST of London says that the World Trade Organization is an embryo world government which no one has voted for. Now how much are they the problem?

HERTZ: Well, the World Trade Organization is an organization that defends trade interests. I think the problem is less that they exist. The problem is that internationally we've only got an organization that protects trade interests. Surely we need some kind of counterweight to protect human rights and the environment too.

MOYERS: In Bolivia, we saw that effort at privatization. Would you place that into the category of the silent takeover?

HERTZ: Well that's a case of public utilities, public goods being increasingly handed over to private enterprises to run. Now there's nothing wrong per se with things being handed over to the private sector to run, if you have, for example a really strong regulator in place.

MOYERS: But take the situation in Bolivia. Those people before Bechtel arrived there did not have good, clean water. Bechtel was trying to set up a system that would deliver then safe, clean and abundant water. I mean, do you think that the effort at privatization of that natural resource was wrong?

HERTZ: Well, Bechtel was trying to set up a situation that would realize to its corporation — profit — which, you know, is not necessarily the same thing as delivering clean water to everyone out there.

MOYERS: It is the natural task of the corporation to gather the capital needed for projects that cannot come elsewhere. I mean, why shouldn't the corporation in tandem with the government of Bolivia be trying to do — to capitalize that water project?

HERTZ: There's nothing wrong with what a company is doing. Companies have to realize profit to their shareholder. They have a legal responsibility to do so, their fiduciary duty. It's the responsibility of states to ensure that in that in that process the poor are still being served and looked after. In Bolivia, the price of water doubled almost overnight. A quarter of an average Bolivian's salary was now to be spent on accessing water. So it's not that there's anything necessarily wrong with private companies providing these functions. It's just that when we have a weak state, no regulator, no competition and you leave it to companies. The poor, the marginalized will often be the losers.

MOYERS: You talk very sensibly. You talk very reasonably and yet the subtitle of your book is a very dire one, Global Capitalism and the Death of Democracy. What do you see that justifies such a dark description?

HERTZ: Well, I think if we look at patterns of voter turnout over the past decade, we see this real disillusionment and lack of faith in governments. Seventy-five percent of Americans believing that big business has more influence over their lives than government…Part of the problem is the embeddedness that big business now has with politics. Funding of political parties, campaign finance.

MOYERS: You're talking to a true believer on that.

HERTZ: Well, I mean you know that creates huge conflicts of interest. George W's environment policy clear dictated by the interests of the energy companies that bankrolled his campaign. So part of what would be needed would be the disenfranchisement of corporations. Would be...

MOYERS: What do you mean by that?

HERTZ: ...the breaking of the financial stranglehold that big business has on politics.

MOYERS: What does this do for what you call in your book, "The social contract?"

HERTZ: Well, it completely destroys the social contract, this idea that government and citizens together have a relationship to provide public goods, a sense of community, a better world. The social contract has been privatized, has been handed over to the private sector to safeguard with incredible conflicts of interest. Scientific research. Scientific research, something that, you know, we want to be able to trust, to believe in, increasingly being funded by private corporations. When the FDA tried to remove saccharine off the list, or decided to remove saccharine off the list of cancer inducing chemicals, its work was based on the findings of the University of Nebraska researcher who was funded by Sweet and Low.

MOYERS: And therefore...

HERTZ: And therefore the conflict is we can't even trust the information we now receive. We need to have much clearer regulations on things like corporate funding of scientific research. Things need to be made explicit which are implicit. We don't want the takeover. We shouldn't allow the takeover to be kept silent any longer.

MOYERS: Have you been out to any of the protests? The protest in Seattle or Genoa or in Quebec?

HERTZ: Yeah. I was-- the last protest I was at was in Genoa, where I got tear gassed and I hate tear gas and I hate being in crowds. But...

MOYERS: Why were you there?

HERTZ: Because I'm really supportive of the protest movement, because I think it's capable of changing the political agenda and because we already see signs of its success. In Europe, Guy Verhofstadt, the President of the European Union when he was, talked about a need for global binding agreements on ethics in the environment. He hosted a one-day session last October to which he invited me-- other people who are seen as voices of the movement, but also Bill Clinton.

MOYERS: Have you seen any evidence though, Miss Hertz, that the protests are actually making a dent...

HERTZ: Yes.

MOYERS: ...in the market ideology, the globalization that girdles the world now?

HERTZ: Yes. I see it in terms of changing political rhetoric in the United Kingdom. Gordon Brown, our Chancellor of the Exchequer, his willingness now to double Britain's aid to least developed countries.

I see it on the lips of every CEO of every big company I see today. They're all saying we cannot ignore the voices of this protest movement. One third of CEOs of big multinationals polled say that they view the anti-globalization movement as a serious threat.

MOYERS: Who's on the side of those people in Bolivia?

HERTZ: The people in Bolivia unfortunately only have each other, but the international activist community is doing something in keeping their story alive. As we saw in the film, it's an activist who through the Internet and using technology for globalization in a positive way managed to get the story of Bolivia across to very many constituencies.

MOYERS: A Bill Finnegan goes there, the mass media pay no attention to that sort of thing.

HERTZ: And that is the tragedy of our times. That's the tragedy of a public information environment that is increasingly being commercialized. It's so hard to get those kind of stories on the airwaves. Broadcasters are so desperate for ratings, for advertising revenues, but they don't really wanna run stories about the poor somewhere else, or even for home.

MOYERS: Is that why you say in your first chapter, "The revolution will not be televised"?

HERTZ: The revolution may not be televised, but word of the revolution is getting out.

MOYERS: I was gonna say you're too young to be a pessimist. Are you a pessimist?

HERTZ: Oh, no. I'm very optimistic. I think that we already see signs that the world is changing. I think in the context now in the United States of Enron, of Tyco, of Adelphia, that 75 percent of Americans who already thought that big business had too much influence over their lives is beginning to say, "You know, hey. Maybe it's not such a good thing that these big corporations are running amok."

So I think we're seeing a ground swell dissent and we're seeing the mainstreaming of a lot of these ideas.

MOYERS: Well, thank you very much for joining us on NOW and thank you for THE SILENT TAKEOVER.

HERTZ: Thank you

100 Unsuitable Jobs

And so it begins
...

And so, after having spent the last five months applying (and getting turned down) for a whole range of game design and production jobs that I’m perfectly qualified for, I decided I might as well start applying (and getting turned down) for some jobs that I have absolutely no experience or qualifications in but which are either:

a) Interesting
b) Weird
c) Just Plain Stupid
d) Massively Financially Rewarding
e) A combination of one or more of the above...

So, today I embark upon my experiment – to apply for 100 jobs that I’m clearly not suited for and see what happens. I won’t be lying on my CV but I may bend the truth slightly to fit my skills to the prospective job! 

...
Job No. 92 - Operational Officer

Lo que muchas...

desean poder hacer!
Consejos de sexpertas
Lo que la técnica les ofrece

a mí no me la charlas

o quién entiende a las féminas virtuales?
 Diálogo defasado y mal adivinado entre
Carolus Scrotóbulos y Leonor en irc canal #cremacamba
Moraleja de la sesión, usando las palabras de ella: 
... debes de ser buen tipo. que pena aca se encuentra de todo


[20:45] SCROTOBULOS: hola linda
qué tal las ofertas de tanto lindo galán virtual??
[20:48] LEONOR: interesante
que ofreces tu?
a que te dedicas?
[20:49] SCROTOBULOS: perdón
LEONOR: jaja
SCROTOBULOS: estaba buscando el último vaso de vino
LEONOR: perdonado
SCROTOBULOS: para aguantar la vida virtual
LEONOR: asi!!
SCROTOBULOS: qué triste la vida
LEONOR: a que te refieres?
LEONOR: sufres
SCROTOBULOS: cada cual ante su PC buscando y hablando del amor
o del sexo
y nada para casi nadie
LEONOR: jajaja
SCROTOBULOS: puro charla virtual
LEONOR: es el lugar inadecaudo para eso, asi pienso yo
[20:51] LEONOR: pareces listo
SCROTOBULOS: cuando abro este canal,debo aguantar a los maricos
LEONOR: que hacves?
SCROTOBULOS: y qué hacemos en estos canales de ratas y ratos??
y ratoncitas varias??
bebiendo un poco mi soledad
parezco listo??
no, soy tonto tras que me siento ante un PC
quizá hago lo mismo que todos y todas
hablar de amor en lugar de hacerlo
LEONOR: umm
[20:53] SCROTOBULOS: hmm, momento... pregunta primaria que olvidé hacer
LEONOR: sos cuerdo eso agrada
no se, pero yo olvide hoy diamuchas
SCROTOBULOS: Eres mujer de vagina o marica camuflau??
sé sincer@, pero no me mientas mucho... no gusto de maricas
LEONOR: umm te pasaste, pero es normal tu pregunta dada la cantidad de gays en el canal
SCROTOBULOS: caramba! otra delicada??
LEONOR: mira
no me gusta la vulgaridad
SCROTOBULOS: te gustaría chatear con un hombre qeu al final es una lesbiana penetratodo??
LEONOR: pero si la sinceridad,
SCROTOBULOS: soy Búlgaro, por si acaso
LEONOR: jaja
SCROTOBULOS: sumamente búlgar o
LEONOR: te dire algo
jaja
SCROTOBULOS: leo, escribe
LEONOR: me complicas
SCROTOBULOS: hmm
LEONOR: es vulgar o bulgar?
SCROTOBULOS: eso te lo digo al oído
si me visitas
LEONOR: imagino b'ulgar
LEONOR: estas soniando despierto
por que lo aria
SCROTOBULOS: claro, por eso se escribe Vulgaria
SCROTOBULOS: harías
porque gusto de las arias con una buena amiga
LEONOR: mira
SCROTOBULOS: asumo que no estudias
por eso te complico
LEONOR: ni te conosco, por quein me tomas,
SCROTOBULOS: hmm
LEONOR: tu proposision no da lugar, y es ofensiva
SCROTOBULOS: en este mundo virtual, puedes darte el lujo de mandarme a freir monas
en aceite de pata demosquito
es tu libertad
LEONOR: lamento pero no es mi condicion el dedicar cumplidos de ese tipo
jajaja
payaso de paso
SCROTOBULOS: pero si crees que tras este vulgar búlgaro hay un buen hombre bueno
si alguna vez has creido algo en un hombre
puedes visitarme
si no creees en nadie... nunca arriesgarás para ganar
y no tiene que ser una falta de respeto, como lo toman las cambalandesas en general
te darás el lujo de no creerme??
LEONOR: mirano te slio tu galanteria, tendrias que probar con otra, a mi no me la chrlas
SCROTOBULOS: hmm
LEONOR: mira te ago un trato
SCROTOBULOS: bien
hacer hago
LEONOR: veamos que tan habiel eres
SCROTOBULOS: hmmm, preguntas para el examen de ingreso a la uni??
[21:01] LEONOR: encuentrame un manual llamado NB 777
si lo haces antes de 10 minutos te puedo visitar
SCROTOBULOS: No Bruto
LEONOR: normas bolivianas NB 777
SCROTOBULOS: ah
LEONOR: si pillas una presentacion, tendras mi permiso para galantear conmigo y mas
SCROTOBULOS: no, no hago milagros
LEONOR: hay
LEONOR: ya busque no pille
SCROTOBULOS: si lo hiciera, no cumples
LEONOR: pero hay
ya baje el pdf
SCROTOBULOS: conozco ese juego
LEONOR: es largo para leer
SCROTOBULOS: y casi siempre gano
pero cuando les toca, reculan
[21:03] LEONOR: tenes menos de 10 minutos
LEONOR: hablas mucho
SCROTOBULOS: escribí que NO
no gusto de jugarretas de TV
tonterías para mozalbetes
LEONOR: No
no puedes os un inutil te pille
sos farsante
SCROTOBULOS: hmm
si supieras
no necesito alardear
sé lo que soy y sé
te apabullarías
LEONOR: yo no alardeo
SCROTOBULOS: yo tampoco
LEONOR: mira lo que dices
LEONOR: SCROTOBULOS: sé lo que soy y sé
LEONOR: SCROTOBULOS: te apabullarías
[21:05] LEONOR: te quedan menos de 9 min.
SCROTOBULOS: no tengo ganas de buscar en 500 posibles resultados
sobre cómo conectar medidores
pufff
LEONOR: jajaja
seguro sos politico
SCROTOBULOS: jajay... tener permiso para galantear contigo
no
LEONOR: no sabes buscar
SCROTOBULOS: he trabajado en todo el sur de alemania con todo tipo de industria y tecnologia
LEONOR: umm
SCROTOBULOS: te podría dar clases, norma
LEONOR: no sabes ni lo que es fp
SCROTOBULOS: Norma Leonor
SCROTOBULOS: en este estado plurinacional, no
si es norma internacional,  quizá puto feo
LEONOR: no sabes nio donde queda, colonia
SCROTOBULOS: puedo sobrevivir con mislagunas
SCROTOBULOS: köln
LEONOR: si son normas Bolivianas
SCROTOBULOS: a 20 km de krefeld, donde nació mi padre
LEONOR: ich festivensi douch
SCROTOBULOS: hmm... mal traductor te buscastes
LEONOR: no
es que no se escribir aleman
peroi si comprendo varias palabras
 me cauesta rponuciar y halbar claro
SCROTOBULOS: Versucht mal mit diesem Satz
Einbildung ist auch eine Bildung
LEONOR: no se leer
LEONOR: trate
SCROTOBULOS: bueno, no alardees
LEONOR: pero es complicado
SCROTOBULOS: no te metas a creer que todos son como tus ex-tintos
LEONOR: nunca pude o me anime
SCROTOBULOS: lo noto, hasta cuando te invito a conocerme
no te animas
LEONOR: poara
SCROTOBULOS: Einbildung = Creerse algo
SCROTOBULOS: es tambien una formación [Bildung]
LEONOR: goten night
SCROTOBULOS: es un dicho muy común que toca y tumba a casi cualquiera en Cambalandia
LEONOR: festiensi english?
SCROTOBULOS: a little
tengo como veintitantos blogs
así que tenme un poco de respeto
multilingual y multifacético
[21:16] LEONOR: se te esta terminando el tiempo amiguito
LEONOR: soy seria y honesta
LEONOR: estas perdiendote algo quepodria ser interesante
LEONOR: no estas te cuento, teineschisapa
LEONOR: me refiero no estas mal
[21:16] SCROTOBULOS: bueno, me voy
LEONOR: te rendiste
SCROTOBULOS: no juego a darte un simple ppt para follarte
no es juego para mí, que voy en serio
LEONOR: de que te sirvio saber tanto si no pudiste con una
SCROTOBULOS: hmm, no me mellas con eso
sobrevivo a mis lagunas
ni modo
LEONOR: nio para mi que ni loca follaria en primera cita
SCROTOBULOS: no, pero en la segunda sí
es cuestión de coñocerme
pero es tu indecisión
[21:18] LEONOR: de la qeu te estas.........
SCROTOBULOS: no importa
LEONOR: mira
no se, la verdad lo veo complicado,
SCROTOBULOS: estoy acostumbrado a tanta mentira y promesa cambalandesa
SCROTOBULOS: si es qeu eres mujer, para colmo
LEONOR: pero gracais por tu tiempo me hicist epensar en algo que ya sabia
SCROTOBULOS: hmm, aprovecha a tus tontos virtuales, que para eso estamos
LEONOR: mira no osy de cambalandia
naci en cbba,
SCROTOBULOS: es lo mismo
no escribí: camba
LEONOR: vivo aca por situacion de padres
estas equivocado
SCROTOBULOS: cambalandesa es toda aquella que vive y miente en cambalandia ... para mí
LEONOR: jajaja
SCROTOBULOS: da una mirada en la web
LEONOR: a caul web
SCROTOBULOS: puedes encontrar algo de lo mío
LEONOR: creo que estas mal
SCROTOBULOS: ...baehren @ hotmail.com
LEONOR: por si acaso no le ahces a ladroga o si??
SCROTOBULOS: busca y admírate
LEONOR: gracsi por el daot pero no me interesa mucho gusto y ve a dormir hueles a atrago
SCROTOBULOS: claro, tengo unos 5 blogs políticos con otra identidad
hmmm, eres tan tonta qeu no notas lo que te pongo ante los ojos
Pon eso en un buscador
no necesitas añadirme
primero investiga, desconfiada
luego lamentarás haber perdido tu chance
buenas noches
LEONOR: una consulta
LEONOR: sabes donde queda la iguera? te suena
LEONOR: http://borochiarrecho.blogspot.com/2008_01_01_archive.html
LEONOR: segun tu blog,
la haces de adivino con vino
lamento a bolivia llego tarde
[21:32] SCROTOBULOS: no crees que poco me puedes enseñar sobre cómo encontrar algo??
SCROTOBULOS: llegas tarde??
LEONOR: creo que halgo te puedo ensenar
SCROTOBULOS: hmmm, como siempre, adivinando lo que escribes
algo
no creo que sea algo con orto...
bien, en vista que no quieres coñocerme
te dejo
ciao
eso, si eres mujer de vagina
no me interesan maricas ni mariconazos... cambalandia apesta a ellos
LEONOR: teines la mente torcida, eso complica y te hace lejos, no puedes tener todo lo que quieras pero si puedes querer todo lo que suenas
SCROTOBULOS: no
no ruego
he tratado de buenas maneras de conocerte
y te burlas como todas
LEONOR: peor no se puede
no comprendes
una vida es otro mundo, onn es ogual que la tuya
SCROTOBULOS: ve y créele a tus amiguitos que te prometen amistad desinteresada .... hasta que te empalcan sobre un pene
LEONOR: miercoles que no hay hombre que no piense en tirar
SCROTOBULOS: son las hormonas
LEONOR: de verdad que son mas hormonales
 e suna pena
tendran no mas que aprobar poligamia asi la sigueinte generacion se acostumbra
SCROTOBULOS: polisexualismo, cuando todo les sirve
las mujeres las tienen en sus años jóvenes
y a partir de los 40, cuando ya les fallan las hormonas
y cuando ya nadie les da bola
LEONOR: asi!!
SCROTOBULOS: vos estás en tu mala etapa
no hay que hacerle
LEONOR: como sea Carlos se termino tu tiempo
un gsuto
que t valla bien
bye
SCROTOBULOS: no te masturbes pensando en los sapitos verdes con corona de príncipes
volverán todos a su laguna
es lindo tener info cuando te la ofrecen en bandeja
en mi blog borochi arrecho hay algún tema que te va a sobrar para aligerar algo tus fantasías... que es lo que no te puedes imaginar
SCROTOBULOS: es -coge
LEONOR: lanza tu mejor carta ahora
o az tu mejor jugada
SCROTOBULOS: no juego tus juegos tontos
LEONOR: te di mi atencion
SCROTOBULOS: ya sé como piensas
LEONOR: te falta alguito
todo la hicicste bien
[21:42] SCROTOBULOS: claro tus 10 min los transformé en más del cuádruple
te mueres de ganas
pero como toda collita tonta, crees que lo haces bien
LEONOR: solo te flato pedir telefono te slaia mas facil podriamso mcharlar. pero te gusta escribir y hacer notar que sos culto, debes de ser buen tipo. que pena aca se encuentra de todo
SCROTOBULOS: no
[21:43] LEONOR: see u
* LEONOR (~LEONA@186.2.22.241) Quit
SCROTOBULOS: no cargo celulares de ninguna vividora más

ranking de las ciudades sustentables de América latina

Source

El estudio del EIU analiza a las ciudades según las 8 categorías siguientes:

• Energía y CO2
• Transporte
• Agua
• Calidad del aire
• Utilización de espacios y edificaciones
• Desechos
• Saneamiento
• Gerencia ambiental

Metodología La pauta de trabajo fue desarrollada por la EIU y está basada en la que se utilizó el año anterior para el Índice Europeo ( European Green City Index ). Sin embargo, para que sea aplicable a América Latina, la estructura fue adaptada para acomodar variaciones en la calidad y disponibilidad de datos asi como los desafíos medioambientales específicos de nuestra región.

• Las 17 ciudades se seleccionaron de manera independiente, no se recibieron solicitudes de alcaldes para solicitar la participación de ciudades específicas

• Un panel independiente de expertos internacionales en sustentabilidad urbana aportó nociones y comentarios en la construcción del índice latinoamericano

• El índice le otorga un puntaje a las ciudades a través de 31 indicadores según las 8 categorías nombradas más arriba

• De los 31 indicadores, 16 son cuantitativos como por ejemplo el consumo de agua de una ciudad y los restantes 15 son cualitativos como por ejemplo el compromiso político de la ciudad en reducir su consumo energético

• El equipo del EIU recolectó los datos entre Abril y Junio del 2010

• El EIU utilizó coeficientes internaciones de CO2 aportados por el Panel Intergubernamental sobre Cambio Climático de las Naciones Unidas para estimar las emisiones de CO2 producida por la matriz energética de cada ciudad

• Para hacer comparables los datos de cada ciudad, los datos adquiridos de varias fuentes fueron normalizados en una escala de 0 a 10, con un puntaje de 10 a la mejor ciudad y 0 a la peor

Antecedentes. El mismo estudio que se presentará este domingo en Mexico para América Latina fue realizado en el año 2009 entre las 30 mayores ciudades de Europa. En el índice Europeo se utilizaron 30 indicadores individuales relacionados con una amplia gama de aspectos ambientales divididos también en 8 categorías. Se emplearon 14 indicadores cualitativos y 16 cuantitativos que varían desde la "gestión ambiental", el consumo de agua, el manejo de desechos y la emisión de gases de efecto invernadero. Luego se ordenaron las ciudades otorgándoles un puntaje a través de un sistema transparente, consistente y replicable. Los resultados se presentaron en diciembre del 2009 durante la COP15 en Copenhague.

Ejemplo del gráfico de resultados para la ciudad de Paris, FranciaFoto: sustentator.com

Violación de secretos epistolares

Ingresó al correo electrónico de su esposa, se enteró de que le era infiel y puede ir preso
5 años!

Casting: el placer de "modelar"

Este resumen no está disponible. Haz clic aquí para ver la publicación.

'Everyman'

Source
May 8, 2006
Philip Roth's new novel is about a 71-year-old multi-divorced, successful advertising man who is facing his physical deterioration and approaching death — without the aid of religion or philosophy. One reviewer called Everyman a "swift, brutal novel about a heartbreakingly ordinary subject."

Roth's 'Everyman' Is Retired, Not Retiring May 2, 2006

Roth Returns with Life and Death of 'Everyman' May 2, 2006

Last year, Roth became the third living American writer to have his work published by the Library of CongressExcerpt: 'Everyman' by Philip Roth

Around the grave in the rundown cemetery were a few of his former advertising colleagues from New York, who recalled his energy and originality and told his daughter, Nancy, what a pleasure it had been to work with him. There were also people who'd driven up from Starfish Beach, the residential retirement village at the Jersey Shore where he'd been living since Thanksgiving of 2001 — the elderly to whom only recently he'd been giving art classes. And there were his two sons, Randy and Lonny, middle-aged men from his turbulent first marriage, very much their mother's children, who as a consequence knew little of him that was praiseworthy and much that was beastly and who were present out of duty and nothing more. His older brother, Howie, and his sister-in-law were there, having flown in from California the night before, and there was one of his three ex-wives, the middle one, Nancy's mother, Phoebe, a tall, very thin white-haired woman whose right arm hung limply at her side. When asked by Nancy if she wanted to say anything, Phoebe shyly shook her head but then went ahead to speak in a soft voice, her speech faintly slurred. "It's just so hard to believe. I keep thinking of him swimming the bay — that's all. I just keep seeing him swimming the bay." And then Nancy, who had made her father's funeral arrangements and placed the phone calls to those who'd showed up so that the mourners wouldn't consist of just her mother, herself, and his brother and sister-in-law. There was only one person whose presence hadn't to do with having been invited, a heavyset woman with a pleasant round face and dyed red hair who had simply appeared at the cemetery and introduced herself as Maureen, the private duty nurse who had looked after him following his heart surgery years back. Howie remembered her and went up to kiss her cheek.

Nancy told everyone, "I can begin by saying something to you about this cemetery, because I've discovered that my father's grandfather, my great-grandfather, is not only buried in the original few acres alongside my great-grandmother but was one of its founders in 1888. The association that first financed and erected the cemetery was composed of the burial societies of Jewish benevolent organizations and congregations scattered across Union and Essex counties. My great-grandfather owned and ran a boarding house in Elizabeth that catered especially to newly arrived immigrants, and he was concerned with their well-being as more than a mere landlord. That's why he was among the original members who purchased the open field that was here and who themselves graded and landscaped it, and why he served as the first cemetery chairman. He was relatively young then but in his full vigor, and it's his name alone that is signed to the document specifying that the cemetery was for — burying deceased members in accordance with Jewish law and ritual.' As is all too obvious, the maintenance of individual plots and of the fencing and the gates is no longer what it should be. Things have rotted and toppled over, the gates are rusted, the locks are gone, there's been vandalism. By now the place has become the butt end of the airport and what you're hearing from a few miles away is the steady din of the New Jersey Turnpike. Of course I thought first of the truly beautiful places where my father might be buried, the places where he and my mother used to swim together when they were young, and the places where he loved to swim at the shore. Yet despite the fact that looking around at the deterioration here breaks my heart — as it probably does yours, and perhaps even makes you wonder why we're assembled on grounds so badly scarred by time — I wanted him to lie close to those who loved him and from whom he descended. My father loved his parents and he should be near them. I didn't want him to be somewhere alone." She was silent for a moment to collect herself. A gentle-faced woman in her mid-thirties, plainly pretty as her mother had been, she looked all at once in no way authoritative or even brave but like a ten-year-old overwhelmed. Turning toward the coffin, she picked up a clod of dirt and, before dropping it onto the lid, said lightly, with the air still of a bewildered young girl, "Well, this is how it turns out. There's nothing more we can do, Dad." Then she remembered his own stoical maxim from decades back and began to cry.

"There's no remaking reality," she told him. "Just take it as it comes. Hold your ground and take it as it comes."

The next to throw dirt onto the lid of the coffin was Howie, who'd been the object of his worship when they were children and in return had always treated him with gentleness and affection, patiently teaching him to ride a bike and to swim and to play all the sports in which Howie himself excelled. It still appeared as if he could run a football through the middle of the line, and he was seventy-seven years old. He'd never been hospitalized for anything and, though a sibling bred of the same stock, had remained triumphantly healthy all his life.

His voice was husky with emotion when he whispered to his wife, "My kid brother. It makes no sense." Then he too addressed everyone. "Let's see if I can do it. Now let's get to this guy. About my brother... " He paused to compose his thoughts so that he could speak sensibly. His way of talking and the pleasant pitch of his voice were so like his brother's that Phoebe began to cry, and, quickly, Nancy took her by the arm. "His last few years," he said, gazing toward the grave, "he had health problems, and there was also loneliness — no less a problem. We spoke on the phone whenever we could, though near the end of his life he cut himself off from me for reasons that were never clear. From the time he was in high school he had an irresistible urge to paint, and after he retired from advertising, where he'd made a considerable success first as an art director and then when he was promoted to be a creative director — after a life in advertising he painted practically every day of every year that was left to him. We can say of him what has doubtless been said by their loved ones about nearly everyone who is buried here: he should have lived longer. He should have indeed." Here, after a moment's silence, the resigned look of gloom on his face gave way to a sorrowful smile. "When I started high school and had team practice in the afternoons, he took over the errands that I used to run for my father after school. He loved being only nine years old and carrying the diamonds in an envelope in his jacket pocket onto the bus to Newark, where the setter and the sizer and the polisher and the watch repairman our father used each sat in a cubbyhole of his own, tucked away on Frelinghuysen Avenue. Those trips gave that kid enormous pleasure. I think watching these artisans doing their lonely work in those tight little places gave him the idea for using his hands to make art. I think looking at the facets of the diamonds through my father's jewelry loupe is something else that fostered his desire to make art." A laugh suddenly got the upper hand with Howie, a little flurry of relief from his task, and he said, "I was the conventional brother. In me diamonds fostered a desire to make money."

Then he resumed where he'd left off, looking through the large sunny window of their boyhood years. "Our father took a small ad in the Elizabeth Journal once a month. During the holiday season, between Thanksgiving and Christmas, he took the ad once a week. 'Trade in your old watch for a new one.' All these old watches that he accumulated — most of them beyond repair — were dumped in a drawer in the back of the store. My little brother could sit there for hours, spinning the hands and listening to the watches tick, if they still did, and studying what each face and what each case looked like. That's what made that boy tick. A hundred, two hundred trade-in watches, the entire drawerful probably worth no more than ten bucks, but to his budding artist's eye, that backroom watch drawer was a treasure chest. He used to take them and wear them — he always had a watch that was out of that drawer. One of the ones that worked. And the ones he tried to make work, whose looks he liked, he'd fiddle around with but to no avail — generally he'd only make them worse. Still, that was the beginning of his using his hands to perform meticulous tasks. My father always had two girls just out of high school, in their late teens or early twenties, helping him behind the counter in the store. Nice, sweet Elizabeth girls, well-mannered, clean-cut girls, always Christian, mainly Irish Catholic, whose fathers and brothers and uncles worked for Singer Sewing Machine or for the biscuit company or down at the port. He figured nice Christian girls would make the customers feel more at home. If asked to, the girls would try on the jewelry for the customers, model it for them, and if we were lucky, the women would wind up buying. As my father told us, when a pretty young woman wears a piece of jewelry, other women think that when they wear the piece of jewelry they'll look like that too. The guys off the docks at the port who came in looking for engagement rings and wedding rings for their girlfriends would sometimes have the temerity to take the salesgirl's hand in order to examine the stone up close."

"My brother liked to be around the girls too, and that was long before he could even begin to understand what it was he was enjoying so much. He would help the girls empty the window and the showcases at the end of the day. He'd do anything at all to help them. They'd empty the windows and cases of everything but the cheapest stuff, and just before closing time this little kid would open the big safe in the backroom with the combination my father had entrusted to him. I'd done all these jobs before him, including getting as close as I could to the girls, especially to two blond sisters named Harriet and May. Over the years there was Harriet, May, Annmarie, Jean, there was Myra, Mary, Patty, there was Kathleen and Corine, and every one of them took a shine to that kid. Corine, the great beauty, would sit at the workbench in the backroom in early November and she and my kid brother would address the catalogues the store printed up and sent to all the customers for the holiday buying season, when my father was open six nights a week and everybody worked like a dog. If you gave my brother a box of envelopes, he could count them faster than anybody because his fingers were so dexterous and because he counted the envelopes by fives. I'd look in and, sure enough, that's what he'd be doing — showing off with the envelopes for Corine. How that boy loved doing everything that went along with being the jeweler's reliable son! That was our father's favorite accolade — 'reliable.' Over the years our father sold wedding rings to Elizabeth's Irish and Germans and Slovaks and Italians and Poles, most of them young working-class stiffs. Half the time, after he'd made the sale, we'd be invited, the whole family, to the wedding. People liked him — he had a sense of humor and he kept his prices low and he extended credit to everyone, so we'd go — first to the church, then on to the noisy festivities. There was the Depression, there was the war, but there were also the weddings, there were our salesgirls, there were the trips to Newark on the bus with hundreds of dollars' worth of diamonds stashed away in envelopes in the pockets of our mackinaws. On the outside of each envelope were the instructions for the setter or the sizer written by our father. There was the five-foot-high Mosley safe slotted for all the jewelry trays that we carefully put away every night and removed every morning... and all of this constituted the core of my brother's life as a good little boy."

Howie's eyes rested on the coffin again. "And now what?" he asked. "I think this had better be all there is. Going on and on, remembering still more... but why not remember? What's another gallon of tears between family and friends? When our father died my brother asked me if I minded if he took our father's watch. It was a Hamilton, made in Lancaster, P-A, and according to the expert, the boss, the best watch this country ever produced. Whenever he sold one, our father never failed to assure the customer that he'd made no mistake. — See, I wear one myself. A very, very highly respected watch, the Hamilton. To my mind,' he'd say, — the premier American-made watch, bar none.' Seventy-nine fifty, if I remember correctly. Everything for sale in those days had to end in fifty. Hamilton had a great reputation. It was a classy watch, my dad did love his, and when my brother said he'd like to own it, I couldn't have been happier. He could have taken the jeweler's loupe and our father's diamond carrying case. That was the worn old leather case that he would always carry with him in his coat pocket whenever he went to do business outside the store: with the tweezers in it, and the tiny screwdrivers and the little ring of sizers that gauge the size of a round stone and the folded white papers for holding the loose diamonds. The beautiful, cherished little things he worked with, which he held in his hands and next to his heart, yet we decided to bury the loupe and the case and all its contents in his grave. He always kept the loupe in one pocket and his cigarettes in the other, so we stuck the loupe inside his shroud. I remember my brother saying, — By all rights we should put it in his eye.' That's what grief can do to you. That's how thrown we were. We didn't know what else to do. Rightly or wrongly, there didn't seem to us anything but that to do. Because they were not just his — they were him... To finish up about the Hamilton, my father's old Hamilton with the crown that you would turn to wind it every morning and that you would pull out on its stem to turn to move the hands... except while he was in swimming, my brother wore it day and night. He took it off for good only forty-eight hours ago. He handed it to the nurse to lock away for safekeeping while he was having the surgery that killed him. In the car on the way to the cemetery this morning, my niece Nancy showed me that she'd put a new notch in the band and now it's she who's wearing the Hamilton to tell time by."

Then came the sons, men in their late forties and looking, with their glossy black hair and their eloquent dark eyes and the sensual fullness of their wide, identical mouths, just like their father (and like their uncle) at their age. Handsome men beginning to grow beefy and seemingly as closely linked with each other as they'd been irreconcilably alienated from the dead father. The younger, Lonny, stepped up to the grave first. But once he'd taken a clod of dirt in his hand, his entire body began to tremble and quake, and it looked as though he were on the edge of violently regurgitating. He was overcome with a feeling for his father that wasn't antagonism but that his antagonism denied him the means to release. When he opened his mouth, nothing emerged except a series of grotesque gasps, making it appear likely that whatever had him in its grip would never be finished with him. He was in so desperate a state that Randy, the older, more decisive son, the scolding son, came instantly to his rescue. He took the clod of dirt from the hand of the younger one and tossed it onto the casket for both of them. And he readily met with success when he went to speak. "Sleep easy, Pop," Randy said, but any note of tenderness, grief, love, or loss was terrifyingly absent from his voice.

The last to approach the coffin was the private duty nurse, Maureen, a battler from the look of her and no stranger to either life or death. When, with a smile, she let the dirt slip slowly across her curled palm and out the side of her hand onto the coffin, the gesture looked like the prelude to a carnal act. Clearly this was a man to whom she'd once given much thought.

That was the end. No special point had been made. Did they all say what they had to say? No, they didn't, and of course they did. Up and down the state that day, there'd been five hundred funerals like his, routine, ordinary, and except for the thirty wayward seconds furnished by the sons — and Howie's resurrecting with such painstaking precision the world as it innocently existed before the invention of death, life perpetual in their father-created Eden, a paradise just fifteen feet wide by forty feet deep disguised as an old-style jewelry store — no more or less interesting than any of the others. But then it's the commonness that's most wrenching, the registering once more of the fact of death that overwhelms everything.

In a matter of minutes, everybody had walked away — wearily and tearfully walked away from our species' least favorite activity — and he was left behind. Of course, as when anyone dies, though many were grief-stricken, others remained unperturbed, or found themselves relieved, or, for reasons good or bad, were genuinely pleased.