Telefono rastro remar lleida
Contents:Registrate en Todo-Tiendas para contactar. Descripción de la tienda: Mobiliario Auxiliares, muebles de cocina, comedor, dormitorio. Sé el primero en añadir tu opinión. Es necesario estar registrado para añadir comentarios. Los datos que aparecen en la tienda son aportados por los propios usuarios. El Gobierno ha mentido a las instituciones, a los votantes, a la chocha reina y al chocho obispo de Canterbury, a los listillos de Oxford, a los listillos de Cambridge, a los bombines de la City, a los corbata grises de Ascot, a los pantaloncitos cortos de Wimbledon.
Ese era el alcance de las revelaciones de Andrew Gilligan. Y titulares a cuatro columnas servidos en serie. Y en todo esto, la editorial, el Sobrehilado. Desde joven tengo amigos que escriben. Eran tiempos pioneros de la Reforma. Cualquier proyecto entraba con sello de innovador o novador. Los centros de profesores, encantados. Los delegados provinciales, encantados.
O tienes el Isbn o no vales un duro, chaval. Aquella Muerte en Venecia. Solos o de paquete. Mis hermanos, todos salieron ciclistas. Jaime estaba por venderla. Eran las dos y media y a esa hora en el Jueves o vendes o vuelves a casa desanimado. Fue la inteligencia o intelectualidad, el compromiso. Se hace imposible conversar. My way, en cambio, es de esas canciones que decimos en el medio del camino, Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita. Hice lo que pude y lo hice a mi manera. Investigar es ver lo que otros no ven o lo que no se ve.
Sevilla, un viernes de junio, tres y diez de la tarde, antes de entrar a un trabajillo mal pagado pero para cubrir gastos el fin de semana. Sindicato del Hambre llaman a un bar famoso por sus bocadillos de calamares, bar en la calle Rivero, cerca muy cerca de La Higiene, a donde iban a comprar los preservativos.
Al Sindicato se acercaba uno para llenar la barriga, ya que no la conciencia. Barba roja, mochila de tela con El lobo estepario y el Marta Harnecker, gafitas sabidillas, ducados cada dos por tres, venga echar humo y opiniones por la boca. Rechaza imitaciones, que es calidad, chiquilla. Una estudiante, a otra. Ahora mismo, no caigo. Siento no poder invitaros y celebrarlo por todo lo alto. Por este medio quiero compartir mis sentimientos. Soy un hombre feliz.
Se tiene por boda ejemplar en tiempos de crisis, ni mareante ni mendicante. Indios, aztecas, pigmeos, nativos del Congo, de Nueva Guinea. Cualquiera puede publicar un libro. En este caso, el precio engorda. Y a la inversa. Del libro que usted compra por mil, el autor se lleva cien como mucho.
Vil metal le llaman, manos limpias. Tampoco hace falta ir a Nueva York. Como hay electricistas y fontaneros autorizados. El tribunal entiende la necesidad de identificar a las personas para prevenir atentados y luchar contra el fraude de identidad. Menudo palo para la alianza de las tres que eran tres, y ninguna era buena. Izquierdaunidistas y psoecialistas se hicieron pajas mentales por evitar la lucha [no la ducha] de clases. Un joven agente de la guardia civil confunde un cuadro de Buly con una bomba.
Fueron el cien C y el mil M. No salieron de la cuenta de la vieja y de tres siglas de andar por casa. Se necesitan 7 hembras y 3 varones. Escribir tiene una parte inconsciente y otra muy consciente, publicar y ser criticado. El poeta es una criatura inventada que firma con tu nombre. Escribir supone olvidarse de uno mismo, y hay maneras de olvidarse como de estar presente. Hay que trampear para buscarse la inocencia.
Usted nos paga bajo cuerda y sin que nadie se entere nosotros procuramos publicar lo suyo en una editorial hecha y derecha. Usted salva su vanidad y nosotros ganamos una pasta gansa. Predicador en el Desierto. San Isidoro de Sevilla y Escuelas Francesas. Superado el muro, empiezo a disfrutar. Os dije que esto engancha. Museo de Arte Moderno de Nueva York.
De los tres palotes,? Sirva de ejemplo el VI en el siglo Esto de darle voz a toreros que a lo mejor no la tienen es precedente del autobiografismo de Chaves Nogales con Juan Belmonte, matador de toros y de Antonio Burgos con Curro Romero, la esencia Grecia demanda las suyas. La rienda corta de Jorge Luis Borges es casi un milagro. Lo primero es hablar como se debe, lo segundo es saber lo que se dice: Del siete al nueve, es que el motor funciona: Las islas Fidji o Fiyi han sido hasta colonia inglesa o parte integrante de la Commonwealth.
Eran dos frailes de bondad. El padre Patero estaba hecho un buen trotaconventos, y se llevaba bien con nuestro padre. Campechano, le gustaba lo lego, lo laico en sentido literal, el siglo, estar en el mundo, y no en la clausura de San Buenaventura, iglesia y horno de nuestra infancia; o de San Antonio de Padua, donde le enviaron un tiempo, como quien dice en la misma plaza donde me fui a vivir. Al principio a cambio de una trola. Mi madre daba siempre la misma respuesta. El disgusto que se va a llevar vuestro padre, aunque creemos que nuestro padre era el primero que pasaba un kilo de las misas y de los curas.
Estados Unidos abarata Puerto Rico, compra a la baja. Estrechez del orificio del prepucio, que impide la salida del glande cuando se pone grande. Ingredientes para una persona. Y a otra historia. En cambio, cuando te presentan con tu nombre y apellido, este es Andrei Bellota, entonces es que eres alguien conocido a juicio de quien te presenta y, una de dos: Al movimiento se suma John Ashbery, el del Autorretrato en espejo convexo Self-portrait in a convex mirror, El siglo 21 parece anteponer la seguridad, el control de toda actividad potencialmente peligrosa, a su incondicional disfrute. Entre tanto miedo, cuesta que prospere cualquier cambio.
Y le llevaron un espejo. Se grapan o encuadernan al gusto. Se cierra la plica. Si el sobre no es de auto cierre y es de los que dejan gomina en los labios, la pegajosidad se mata con su chupito de orujo o de aguardiente. Todo sin remite ni firma. Se vuelve a la calle y se guarda una cola espesa en la oficina de correos. Se manda el paquete certificado. Si no lo certifica, la verdad es que da igual. Escribo para llegar serenamente al silencio, que es el morir. Para aprender a callar, en paz conmigo, sin miedo, libre, al fin. Directamente escribo para no escribir.
Quieto en el allegretto, inquieto en el staccato. Cuando miro nuestro examen y observo las cien preguntas, se pone mi cara blanca, me cago y las paso putas. Truth, the light, and you may will survive. Verdad, la luz, y puede que sobrevivas. Cuando al Biparty le entraron las prisas por aforar al viejo Rey, expertos constitucionalistas coincidieron en que aquello era ilegal. Ha llegado a esta localidad el aforadero. No deje pasar esta oportunidad. Recogemos y entregamos en su propio domicilio. Las recientes excavaciones confirman este relato.
En Mayo del 68 las reflexiones se encaminaban a definir la literariedad. No soporta Tinta de Calamar. La mujer lo saca a hombros. Cagaraste en sus muertos, dicho en fino. Lo echa quien acaba descuajaringado. No suena solo en la selva. Los extremos del Nottingham Forest. Robin de los Bosques. Balneario de Karlovy Vary. Chorros termales y cada quien con su loza con algo de diarrea y de tercera edad. El alto imperio del ocio y del negocio. Hagan juego, llenen sus jarritos. El autocar espera y hay que volver a Praga.
Viajes Tinta de calamar. La silla de ruedas, la vendo. Sarkozy, imputado; Juan Carlos, aforado. Francisco Pomares, en Diario de Avisos, desde Canarias. La Ley Putin consagra la censura previa sobre lo que se escribe, se publica, se filma o se difunde. Couso estaba en la planta Son muy sexuales y muy suyos los quicios. De la costumbre, poco hay que decir.
Rastro Remar
Se abren puertas como se respira, sin darse cuenta uno de que las abre. En bibliofilia, se llama intonso el libro sin guillotinar, que debe ser deshojado manualmente a cuchilla o abrecartas, detalle que emula las ediciones antiguas. Para hacerme una idea, cojo un folio A4 y lo doblo por la mitad: Ya iba bien vestida la doncella. Epicentro lleva ese nombre por un chiste de leperos.
Epicentro en su zona, stop. Y al cabo de tres semanas: No hemos podido contestar antes porque hemos tenido un terremoto de cojones. Fijo que a su mujer no le han de faltar ideas. Y a esperar entre quimeras y cuentos de lechera un telegrama que no ha de llegar. Con buen criterio le pusieron Teresa Trinidad. Teresa, unas veces reina y otras, princesa. Se puede discutir la natalidad, se puede discutir la maternidad, se puede cuestionar traer a nadie al mundo cuando el mundo es esta mierda superpoblada que pisamos.
Estos universos se desarrollan fuera de la trama inicial y se propagan por internet, generando una comunidad de seguidores que pueden acceder a sus contenidos por todos los canales posibles: Lo mejor de mi obra son mis arrepentimientos. Previsiblemente, se sigue oyendo durante los desfiles. La letra es de las de uno solo y al final son dos. Ora et labora, juntas respuestas y preguntas. En sus pupilas cabe la Ruta de la Plata, la vida en fin. Orestes fue agustino antes que padre. Que te entraban ganas de rezarle. Que tengas el cuerpo [bueno para defenderte] y que no te lo jodamos el comisario y yo.
Hoy quiero darte las no gracias. Tomo nota de las erratas. He corregido las galeradas unas 20 veces. He imprimido el texto, lo he convertido en pdf, lo he vuelto a corregir. Espero tu llamada o tu mensaje. Tocarla, no puedo; tocarme, no debo. But i like it. A la Feria me llevaba mi padre, a la caseta de la empresa. El opio del pueblo y el pan y circo en Sevilla tienen su propio sabor.
Lo de la yaya y Ezequiel, tener fe, rezar, eran ganas de extremismos integristas. Ese olor es- pumoso, la acidez, el tono acelga. Con paz y no violencia: En el contene- dor no se toca, que nos toca el pene. Los muertos se supone que, como el iva, ya estaban incluidos. En Semana Santa son muy poblados de gente arriba y abajo, muy teatrales y populares, los pasos de tribunal.
Hasta el siguiente relieve. Era el de la Mercedes. Con lo que haya en casa y con las sobras de navidad, se monta el jaleo. En la Raya Real, sin tablao y con polvo de las arenas, la sevillana se ralentiza y se simplifica en una. Hasta que esa sevillana lenta y sola casi siempre la primera de las cuatro prescinde del baile y se hace honda o saeta cuando se canta ante la hoguera o a un simpecao. La caza del zorro, mejor dicho, la del topo. Flota, flota, y no hace la pelota. La cultura, como Cartago, debe ser destruida. En India eres intocable porque das asco y no te dejan ni entrar en internet.
Convierte el resultado de pesetas a euros. El hidalgo de El Lazarillo usaba poner un palillo entre los dientes. Anagrama de Albertina es Lebratina. Llega una semana de avances financieros, sobre todo en los ingresos. Desde ya llevaba siete Tours ganados con ayuda de alguna sustancia rica, rica.
Aforismo de Friedrich Nietzsche: Quien use la prensa digital, eso se pierde al limpiarse el culo. Era ya muy tarde. Play it again, Sam! A DeVille le apasionaba escuchar a Edith Piaf. Fedro y Para un dios de invierno me dieron tinta para matar al gigante. La prueba de una buena pluma de trazo ancho es que, como un coche mucho tiempo parado, te arranque a la primera sin necesidad de ensalivar o humedecer la punta.
Sarraceno, oriental, significa natural de la Arabia Feliz o quien profesa el islam. Algo de Aracne, tela sin fin. Se tiene por defecto de la personalidad. Muy joven, Blanca Andreu se fue a Madrid. Es de esos que hacen pasar su prosa cojitranca y su anacoluta sintaxis por narrativa de vanguardia. Se llama bodrio, germano caldo, a un guiso mal aderezado o a la sangre de cerdo mezclada con cebolla para embutir morcillas. Quien no te conoce piensa: Gentileza del bar Nuria, lunes 16 de abril de , Desayuno con Pasarela Abogados.
El Sobrehilado era una prestigiosa experiencia marginal y guerrillera. El Sobrehilado era en realidad Tamara Troncoso, mujer empresa y gran olfato lector. Se van quedando sin palabras las palabras. El caso era, es, nuestra buena vida en el bar como si no nos vieran, con otra mirada, otros ojos. Igualdad en contacto, no en pomposas declaraciones de derechos humanos. Igualdad de cliente final. Igualdad que se pueda tocar. Un amigo nuestro, todas las novias que tuvo se llamaban Ana. Y a cada hija, su Ana.
El hombre estaba en tratamiento. De los pocos que aguantan el diminutivo, Anita. Las autoridades egipcias, entretenidas con los Hermanos Musulmanes, no se pronunciaron. El tal hallazgo fue publicado en Archaeology News por una agencia de notas de prensa previo pago. Aquel esfuerzo fue comparable al de los ilustrados por aunar patria y progreso, pasado y futuro, sin salir afrancesados en la foto. No importa lo que diga un extranjero. Suponed simplemente que el extranjero no ha llegado y que sus palabras por tanto no existen. Irse de la lengua era un oficio real, una forma funcionaria de vivir.
Si no quieren fatigarse, vayan al diccionario inverso de Stylus punto com. La Paz , con calles de Madrid. Los pinares de Oromana, un suponer. Neverita, tortilla, filetes empanados.
Diez en un turismo. Lo de agacharme, lo llevaba regular, pero el amor a la ventanilla me ha durado toda la vida. Es lo que tiene esto de copiar y pegar. Ahora todos los martes tenemos bote. Con Kappel se escribieron los horrores del nazismo y mis primeros horrores como escritor. Ella vino del Jueves y al Jueves ha vuelto, de museo. Sirve en El Taller de la Copia para atril anuncio de exposiciones. De manera que si hoy te examinan [tachado: Todo para que su Eusebio se diera por aludido y diera a ella, de paso, la canela en rama que andaba pidiendo a todas luces. Si llama por motivos comerciales, pulse 2.
Imaginemos que se van quedando obsoletos los motivos para el robo y la mendicidad. Y privar de libertad total o parcial ya se hace sin instituciones penitenciarias. Hablole de su secta y de su dios, Basalto. Es femenino el espacio de mesas y de baile, y, masculinas, la trastienda, la barra y la bebida. En cambio, paellas y barbacoas, con manejo del fuego y general aplauso, se las reservan varones que nunca han roto porque no friegan un plato.
Seis doble, domus viri. La deshora en el canto del gallo. Redobles de campanas, de tambor y de conciencia. La salmodia, la voz del pregonero. La risa desdentada de los chiquillos entre la electricidad de los caballos. La bocacalle de tus padres. Una mosca alrededor de un guardia muy serio. El ojo de un pintor flamenco. El carro de heno, los cristos, el cuchillo y la tenaza. El canto de la chicharra y el callo en la mano del verdugo.
Outlet, liquidaciones, stock, ofertas.
El dominico que grita penitentiate, penitentiate. Los avances de la caries y de la imprenta. El fuego, el fuego. Tampoco en la luna se ponen de acuerdo todos los autores. Antiguamente, cuenta la Enciclopedia Cristiana, el lunes de Pascua las mujeres golpeaban a sus maridos y el martes los hombres las zurraban. Se liberaban con los suculentos huevos de Pascua. Te imaginas que un astro te diera nombre, moviera tu cintura y todo el Sur. Y un cansancio infinito en el resto del cuerpo.
Y, por supuesto, el Isbn. Y se fue a las rebajas a comprarse media docena de ajorcas. Es el primer propietario de bosques maderables de eucalipto en Europa y segundo productor mundial de pasta de celulosa. Fray Rosendo Salvado, misionero en Australia, fue quien lo trajo, no entero, hombre, en semillas que iba enviando a su familia en Tuy.
La palabra eucalipto viene del griego eu y kalipto, que significa bien cubierto, cerrado u oculto. Las doctrinas husitas acentuaron el nacionalismo checo y prefiguraron la Reforma. Ni Deus aedificet frustra domus, para entendernos. El sufijo -ista parece etiqueta, no siempre bien recibida. Pero le ponen -ista y, ya ven, comunista.
Otras veces interesa ser -ista. Sin artistas profesionales se ha escrito la historia del arte pero cualquiera le dice esto a los artistas. Hay quien vive de un arte como si fuese un oficio y hay quien vive de un oficio como si fuese un arte.
Index of /2013/04
Con tan pleciosa cliatula llevaba Luna Yen yaciendo lunas llenas yelmas, es decil que Yen no la yenaba. Tratado de la masculinidad. El llanto del caballero por la soltura de los puntos de sus medias. Tratado de la vana gloria. Cartas entre el matrimonio Panza. Los juicios de Sancho. Tratado de la cultura. Y hay indicios leoneses. Verdad dijo quien dijo que la paradoja es la madre de todas las cosas.
Huele a rata y a humedad. Carcelero, carcelero, no te tardes que me muero. En Google, Libro del buen amor gana a de buen amor por goleada. Botella al mar para el dios de las palabras, La Iglesia da ejemplo al municipio. Sevilla puede ser esa pompa del fuese y no hubo nada. Corpus Barga fue uno de los amigos que ayudaron a Antonio Machado y familia a cruzar a Francia en Me cuenta Joseba Elola. A nosotros nos daba igual con tal de que cada uno hiciera o hiciese su trabajo. Como que mi hermano Quico en su Facebook se residencia en Cantabria. Yo creo que a todos nos pasaba un poco lo mismo.
Mejor que se te haya muerto esta y no las otras tres que ya tienes criadas. Lo de menos, es que en el poema adolescente rimen mundo con vagabundo, pino con camino, amor con flor, o te quiero con catorce de febrero. Callemos, pues, hermano, y a caminar por la sombra.
Pero le dijo el Tiempo al Querer: Sus ojos se cerraron es un tango de Gardel y Le Pera. Los de Moustaki se cerraron en Niza el 23 de mayo de Samaria, Israel, a. La primera mujer se quejaba al rey de que la segunda mujer, con la tripita llena, se negaba a cumplir su parte y a sacrificar a su hijo. Cocimos a mi hijo y nos lo comimos. Por algo gusta la cruz, Javier Krahe. El paso pesa, pero no mucho. El polonio es perfecto para envenenar a lo Agatha Christie. Nos conocemos de la Bicicultura y por el libro colectivo Poetas en bicicleta.
A su manera, en la bici se siguen mezclando esas tres facetas: Una cosa es que las cosas no tengan ni pies ni cabeza y otra, muy distinta, es que tengan pies y cabeza y cambiadas de sitio o a la inversa. Vayan a la portada, denle la vuelta al calamar y digan si miento o exagero. Y ya, a la playa. Como la piedra venerable que a contraluz se olvida un rayo en el retrovisor, puente que me devuelve de esta orilla, con el regusto provinciano del viajero que todo lo quiso a imagen y semejanza suya, la calle estrecha, la plaza y el idioma.
Como esos bares de hombres solos y vinos peleones, contra la diferencia horaria que, corregida, no nos disculpa, como la Dama inglesa Carvoeiro, Por la radio el radio nos enteramos de todo. Lo que sigue puede herir su sensibilidad. O sea, que menos mal. Cara al sol, madre. Ya investido, al presidente Lugo empezaron a salirle demandas de paternidad, y tuvo que someterse a pruebas de adeene. Este hijo es tuyo.
Que no, Luisa Fernanda, que no. Cuando oigo la palabra cultura amartillo la pistola. Cuando oigo la palabra cultura extiendo un cheque en blanco. Mi padre fue pionero en esto de inventarse patrias y hacerse de un lugar a su medida. Mi abuelo, mi padre y mis dos titos entraron en el comercio o se hicieron agentes comerciales.
Y fue como en los cuentos. En Londres por primera hubo hostias entre las mujeres. No, que te lo gastas. Para que luego digan. Bonita palabra la palabra farol que lo mismo alumbra la verdad, que nos mete en un mar de dudas. No me lo explico. Y la piel de gallina, solo si son gallinas vivas de granja, no esclavas ponedoras para el hombre blanco.
Pues te veo totalmente naranja. En ciudadanos vietnamitas presentaron una demanda civil en los juzgados de Nueva York. La cita del final iba en plan culto. Dixit et salvavit aninam meam. Como cuando cagas duro y te quedas tan a gusto. Empezaron demoliendo siete mausoleos o morabitos de ancestrales santones de la zona y luego arremetieron contra la puerta de madera labrada de la mezquita de Sidi Yahia. La prensa es que no se entera. Ya es el fin de los tiempos. Casi todas arrastran connotaciones pegajosas.
Muchedumbre admite abundancia de cosas, que es cosa buena. Violeta Parra, utiliza multitudes. Gracias a la vida. Yo tengo tantos amigos, que no los puedo contar. En el redondeo se espera que todos saquen la cartera por igual y que a todos cueste la fiesta lo mismo. En Feria las rondas se pagan en especie.
Los Sinca son los que no tienen caseta y los Vandegorri, que se van sin pagar o no pagan nunca. Entre los tres llevaban la memoria de la vida social y el peso de la pamplina literaria de la ciudad. Nada que ver con Last words of the executed, de Robert K. Benditos bares que se ha de llevar la ley de costas. Movimiento de cucharillas en todos los trabajos de la media hora del desayuno, bancos, oficinas. Movimiento de cucharillas en un instituto. La banda de la cucharilla habla y habla hasta fijar el tema.
Se prende con una chispa. En la segunda fase prima tomar medidas. And is this night colder than average? Have they climbed to a higher elevation perhaps? For all his mental preparation throughout the day, Lac is still overwhelmed by the stark reality of the cold. He wants to scream.
Then he hears something strange. Laughter attracts the jaguars. Rowahirawa loves it anyway. His father is being carried in, dangling by his bound wrists and ankles from a pole suspended between the shoulders of two ridiculously costumed natives, sporting fruity headdresses and slack-lipped expressionless faces. The natives are carrying Malcolm to an altar stone for his sacrificial dismemberment, of course. A line of pregnant women with bare protruding bellies waits to consume the disarticulated appendages.
His father complains, not about his own treatment, but because his flesh will go to nourishing a bunch of namby-pamby pedagogues and paper pushers. He feels the ropes sawing into his wrists, the weightlessness of hanging and bouncing, and finally the fear of what awaits him. Bahikoawa directs the proceedings from the head of the altar rock—which Lac sees is overrun with ants—while Rowahirawa stands off to the side, shoulders juddering with laughter.
Caimans are said to be tough and stringy anyway.
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The wound required ten stitches to close. Lac may have dramatically altered their culture by introducing the practice, but their culture was about to be even more dramatically altered by the encroachment of much larger forces anyway. So he was proud of his stitch work, but went on over the next three days, as he always seems to, to see the wound in his mind whenever he closed his eyes. He never did like the sight of blood.
He finds in himself the wherewithal to control his shivering, forces himself to lie still, listening to his jagged breaths. An odd clicking noise, impossible to locate, sounds from high in the trees, probably some kind of beetle. He searches his recent memory. How can you be sure? What did you hear? His pack is hanging from a nearby tree, with his flashlight slid into the pocket on the side.
He takes a moment to listen, mustering the courage to sit up and reach for the bag. Could it have been the tail end of a dream? No, I remember exactly what I was dreaming. He lies frozen, his thoughts only half diverted from the cold sending its jolting waves through his body, dissolving the surface of his flesh, soaking into the meat.
Every night sound takes its turn on the stage of his conscious awareness; none indicates any human presence beyond his sleeping co-travelers. Finally, he lifts his shoulders from the netting of the hammock, losing control of his shaking as he does so, and reaches for the light, barely catching his balance before dumping himself on the ground. A glimpsed figure moving through some nearby undergrowth locks him in place. The longer Lac stares, the less sure he is that he saw what he thinks he saw. He starts to reach again for the flashlight but sees movement in his periphery, bringing his eyes to another spot in the forest.
There are more than one of them. A stick cracks apart behind him, sounding like nothing so much as a pull tab being peeled back from the lip of a beer can. His ears go tingling hot as every heartbeat surges through his temples. He stands and turns the light on the tree the first man slid behind. What he sees is a mossy trunk with its scaly bark cast into shadowy relief by the yellow beam, and nothing else. He Borara Ch 4. Lac stands knee-deep in the river, watching smoke snake up over the trees on the far bank of the Orinoco.
But he still likes to walk through the tiny wedge of jungle separating Bisaasi-teri from the Orinoco; walking through this forest effects a change in his mental state, frightening him, but also connecting him to this main riverine conduit back to Puerto Ayacucho, back to Esmeralda, back to Caracas, back to Laura and Kara and Dominick. The smoke twists up through the trees like a gnarled finger, pointing up into the blue tropical sky. Squatting down, he reaches for the water and nervously pulls scoops of it up over his arms, washing away the mud.
I could swim, he thinks. Once across, if I make it, I could hike along the trail we found leading back to the hut. From the hut, I could surveil the area, see what I can learn about these new guests in the region. Or I could just march up and announce myself. And the piranha—who could forget those? The children follow him wherever he goes, not always the same ones, but almost always numbering between six and a dozen or so.
As he travels from section to section of the shabono, they tend to remove, by their mere presence, any element of threat he may pose, while the din engulfing them obviates any need for him to announce himself. Assigning fake names to a hundred plus unfamiliar faces—none of whose garb serves as a reliable cue to identity—and connecting them along gradients of relatedness is not something you accomplish successfully in a single pass along the rim of the plaza, poking your head into the shadowy gloom, each section a valve governing the flow of kinship, of genes copied, passed along, and shared.
Lac has decided on a single complete pass a day, culminating in at least a handful of new names assigned to each area. But people move about, visiting. After seeing a few dozen nameless faces, they all start to blur. Waddu-ewantow in particular demands something new every time he sees him. Lac almost regrets giving him all the fishhooks and line—which he seems not at all inclined to use—as payment for helping him construct the walls and the palm-thatched roof for his hut.
He definitely regrets that scoop of oatmeal, which marked the beginnings of his status as eminently bullyable.
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In the meantime, he has no choice but to wait, unless he wants to build a raft. No, that would take enough effort to suggest desperation, and the suggestion, once he let it take hold in his mind, would become a reality. And to what end? To book passage to a town where he can buy a boat. If you want to leave Bisaasi-teri so badly, have a firmly established mode of egress from the site of your work, as far as possible from the shabono, where everything is taut and vibrating and loud, the floor of the plaza like a drum skin pulled over some bottomless pit in the jungle, up through which rises— enough!
Enough of your chasing down twisted metaphors. Enough of your suggestions and your desperation. And you have work to do. One last scooping of water up over his arms and splashed onto his face before he turns to the children on the bank, roaring playfully, brandishing his splayed fingers as make-believe claws.
Stepping from the river, he climbs back up the bank to the trail, having decided to try something new. Everyone knows the story—most likely apocryphal—of the natives becoming enraged when they see some hapless photographer-cum-ethnographer has stolen their souls. Likely apocryphal, but the images do need to be, if not explained—the Western notion of causal explanation is newer and less universal than one may assume—then at least incorporated into their belief system.
Or probably a month. Then again, he may have to give them some explanation of the felt-tipped scribbling underneath this two-dimensional rendering of their ghostly likenesses. How comfortable are you lying to them? It requires a great deal of faith in my capacity to learn. A scholar with a gift for synthesizing diverse lines of reasoning and findings from multiple sources? What actual evidence do I have either way as I try to answer any of these questions? As he enters the clearing, he has two contradictory reactions to seeing his hut: How had Clemens done it?
Was his method somehow superior? He probably had access to techniques honed over generations by his Protestant forebears. Alas, anthropologists avoid such topics in their studies, concentrating on their subjects instead, striving for objectivity. Or I used to think so anyway. The din hovering over these boys keeps him from noticing the eerie silence that has overtaken the village. Lac goes inside the gloomy dwelling to find his barrels. As he cracks one open and rummages for his camera, the boys move in and out through the door as their game dictates.
Kids are kids no matter what culture they grow up in. Lac looks over at the boy and simultaneously hears a cacophony of competing voices ringing out from the shabono. What the hell is wrong with you guys? The sidling duck-waddle, the pinched asshole, the brief wash of gratitude after standing up and not seeing war arrows aimed at his face—he goes through each stage of his daily initiation.
Why, he wonders, do I never bring my shotgun? Ah, but you know damn well why. People are standing in front of their own sections of the shabono, shouting at each other across the plaza. When he sees the gathering of bodies nearby, he moves, cautiously but unhesitatingly, toward the throng. Howls of pain and anger soar up over the courtyard, as women and men dance out their spiteful tirades. How bad will the wound be this time? But if there was a club fight, it must not have lasted long. If it began around the time he heard the commotion, there would barely have been enough time for each of the two men to take a turn.
Lac first imagines two women squaring off in the center of the courtyard, their poles held vertically in grips toughened by years of chopping and hauling firewood. He takes a breath and several more steps backward, then starts to chuckle silently. Maybe grab him by the strings on his arms and wrists, try to shake the story out of him while his brothers and uncles reach for their clubs and nock their arrows. Even as he muses, the details of the incident begin to resolve before him.
It was an assault. His family is in turn justifying the attack, perhaps with reference to her disobedience, her abiding disrespect, or her chronic infidelity. Her wound seems serious. Lac catches sight of his young translator and rushes to his side. Every cell of his body hums with the compulsion to pry the story out of someone by whatever means. The boy sees him and flashes a grin, somewhere between sly and demure. Lac points at the injured woman amid the continuing uproar. He points down at the log, the crime weapon.
Lac in turn shakes his head meaninglessly. This is maddening, he thinks, grabbing the boy by his shoulders, directing his attention toward the log, and then sweeping his index finger in a wide arc implicating all the people of the shabono. The boy smiles, takes Lac by the arm again, and walks him to the other side of the plaza.
Men shout at them. The boy shouts back. Lac allows himself to be guided to the section occupied by whichever brutish man clubbed that poor woman over the head with a smoldering log from the fire. His intrepid translator marches them brashly up to the group—as if making a show of courage—and lifts his arm to point. Lac follows his finger and sees a woman, maybe a decade older than the injured one. Now Lac and his translator are accosted by four men who take turns yelling into their faces, who then begin to grab them and shove them around.
He fears he may be attacked, struck, clubbed, impaled by an arrow, or porcupined by an entire fusillade. The boy tugs at his arm and they beat a hasty retreat across the plaza. So a woman hit another woman with a piece of firewood. His translator strikes him again on the shoulder and points to a woman sitting some distance away from the kids. From what Lac can see, she looks to be braiding something, but she periodically glances over at the children.
Another woman sitting in a hammock nearby is likewise occupied, kicking around logs to help along the fire in her hearth, but also flitting glances at the children. The injured woman shirked her babysitting responsibilities, and the other woman, perhaps the mother of the neglected child, flew into a rage and clubbed her with the only weapon near at hand. Lac, once again, is left wondering where the safest place to stand might be. Or as Laura might explain, he feels a profound desire to stay busy and prove his usefulness.
No one bars his entry into the clutch of bodies, this subhuman, this clown—this purveyor of magic tools and exotic foods, this sometimes healer. What important words, he wonders, are going undocumented? How will I corroborate the story? Not much I can do for a concussion, he thinks. His body responds before he can reason out the proper course. Clutching the camera hanging from his neck while he recovers his balance, he steps back to reclaim his lost ground, and gives the culprit an equally rough retaliatory shove.
Now the man is glaring at him, flailing his arms, and releasing a torrent of threats and insults. Another man joins the first in his dance of indignation. Just as the kindling rage reaches the verge of igniting into violence, another man runs up to join the fray, his hands raised, placating. His words are hurried but not angry. He speaks, his tone emphatic, bordering on plaintive. Then the other man speaks, still angry. Lac rehearses his plan to escape even as he questions the ethical implications. How would Laura feel about that reasoning?
My advantage is in not having a lineage, not mattering—except for my madohe. The man talks over him in his whiny, nasalized syllables. They let tongue clicks and aweis suffice. Does talking down an enraged attacker constitute a favor for which payment must be tendered? The man steps back, giving Lac a gentle shove and leaving him to stand there, amid the commotion, moving his gaze along the edges of the circular plaza, into the homes nestled beneath the huge palm-thatch roof.
Then he turns his gaze upward, into the cloudless sky, tired of seeing it all, tired of the never-ending racket, tired of the shouting and the anger and the threats, tired of the god awful smells, tired of being covered in slimy half dried sweat and set upon by vicious biting insects, tired of being in this boiling cauldron of human slop. Unless the missionaries prevail on them to stop fighting. Lac avoids every man he sees on his way to the passage outside, hoping to sneak out with as little harassment as possible. Neither Bahikoawa nor the younger wife is anywhere to be seen.
How had he not seen it before? So many naked bodies. So much going on. He stands there watching her for several moments. Then he reaches for his pocket, withdraws his notebook, turns, and wades back into the mess of humans. A powerful man with a light touch. Lac observes admiringly as Bahikoawa quells the rancor by not too insistently or too directly trying to quell it. The simplicity of the roles in a culture like this would suggest fewer dimensions of possible differentiation for their personalities—they all do the same work, know the same stories and songs, look forward to or dread the same upcoming events, insofar as looking forward is possible to a people without calendars or clocks.
So where does a man like Bahikoawa come from? More importantly, how did a man with such a light touch come to have any authority at all among a people so pushy and demanding and prone to violent outbursts? Stepping to avoid the men wandering away from the scene, Lac begins to answer his own question, thinking, Bahikoawa must be part of a more dominant lineage, have more brothers and uncles and male cousins. That has to be part of it. But is your reasoning about less differentiation or less individuation between personalities sound? Could this man have somehow developed qualities that truly set him apart?
A glance around the shabono belies this idea. They could be clones of each other, at least when it comes to their appearance, their tools, their houses. As the hubbub peters out, more passing men make demands on him. He folds his arms and utters a firm ma, then the second time shouts it, then the third shouts it louder still.
After twice going through this progression with different men, he starts to lead with the louder ma. The men are dribbling out through the passages to go hunt, and the women are picking up their baskets for hauling firewood—what are they using to chop it? Lac steps to one side and proceeds to the exit as the man berates him. My shotgun , he thinks. Sprinting over the clearing, he has no thought of snakes or feces. Bracing his hands against the frame, he catapults his head inside, turning to one side then the other.
The camera dangles from his neck, reminding him that before hearing the brouhaha he was rummaging through the barrel that now stands open, its lid tossed aside. Lac peers down into the barrel. Most of the contents remain. Before doing a thorough inventory, he scans the hut for his shotgun, his throat gripped with panic, his heart a dense block of wood. It lies flat on the clay floor when before it stood braced against the mud wall.
Lac feels as though every bone of his skeleton has vanished as his flesh is turning to mist. Not satisfied to see that the gun remains in his possession, he steps over to make sure he can feel it in his hands. He steps over to the door to investigate the lock. He hurried off and left the hut unlocked. Way to go, Shackley. Everything he sees speaks of discrepancies, clues, signs pointing to motives, nothing, nothing, blankness.
It was on his makeshift table. The barrel had three of the cheap machetes he brought so many of, and now it has one. At this discovery, Lac breathes easier, thinking about how much grander the larceny could have been. He goes to the trunk and digs through the plastic totes. The feeling of violation sets in deeper with each passing minute. Someone entered his hut, his living space, and fondled all his belongings, his shotgun, his food containers.
Nothing is safe out here. He goes back over and clutches the latch on the door. Even if it was secured, a good strong kick would grant entry to anyone sufficiently motivated. He steps back and sits on his hammock, his thoughts whirling. Sighing, he gets to his feet and goes outside to continue work on his shoddy mud hut.
Lac sits atop the log stool, writing at his table. Yesterday was an especially trying day. After witnessing the aftermath of an altercation—a woman beat another woman over the head with a piece of firewood, likely for negligent childcare—I returned to find my hut had been searched and a few items, most notably a couple of machetes, had been stolen. It turns out that was only the beginning of my difficulties. Apparently, these two newer machetes showing up in the village created quite a stir.
After expending all the time and effort necessary to figure out what they wanted, my first inclination was to oblige. Then I reasoned it may be tough using trade goods as payment after setting a precedent of handing them over to anyone who asks not so nicely. So I refused, repeatedly, raising my voice and lowering my tone each time. They harassed me, pleading, indignant, angry—walking manifestations of unchecked emotion.
Then another man showed up and it was two against one. Soon, it was three against one. I was sure now I was in significant danger. If I allowed them to prevail on me to give everyone a machete, more men would arrive shortly afterward, demanding their own. So I held my ground. Then the sioha from Karohi-teri showed up, the man who bullied me out of my last bite of oatmeal on my first day alone in the field.
The situation went from tense and frightening to desperately urgent. The man began his negotiations by putting both hands on my chest and giving me a stiff shove. It was time to flee. It would be gone. I made a quick decision, a calamitous one. I allowed myself to be pushed in the direction of the wall, walked over, picked up the machete, and began walking back toward the sioha. Maybe it was the self-satisfied grin spreading across his face. I walked right past him, clutching the machete in a tight grip.
Recovering my balance, I saw there was no clear route of escape from the growing crowd of men, and the only way into the hut was through my chief tormentor. I confess my strongest impulse was to lift the machete over my head and bring it down hard enough to bury it in his, splitting that ridiculous tonsure in half like a melon. The other men were frantic and whiny, but not nearly as angry and primed for fisticuffs as this one.
Nevertheless, after I pressed the machete into his chest, making a single gesture of passing it to him and shoving him out of the way, the crowd roared, creating a deafening clamor.
Several of them rushed the door behind me. Two men were already inside when I turned around, but they halted in place when they saw what I was holding. They must have remembered my demonstration from a couple days ago. They must have gotten the gist. They tried to back out of the hut but ran into more men trying to push their way inside. I held the gun up higher, still prepared to fire if necessary, but in ready view of this second row of intruders.
My first thought was of how to reinforce the door. Before getting to that, though, I stepped outside and fired a round in the air. And the next person I catch in my hut gets his ugly tobacco-stretched face blown off! What can I say? I needed to intimidate them. Pressing the door closed, I saw my hands were shaking yet again. It was only a moment later that I heard the first pound on the door. I waited, terrified, ready to fire, but no one attempted to burst through. One of them must be testing it, I thought.
I took a breath, swung open the door, stepped outside, and fired another shot in the air before stepping back in, securing the latch, and beginning the painfully long process of rolling and dragging one of the barrels to the doorway to use as a barricade. The constant threats and bullying are really starting to take a toll on me though. I need to come up with a way to curtail the harassment before something truly tragic happens. I should write about that feeling of bottomless despair and impenetrable isolation, he thinks.
None of the ethnographers you read talked much about the psychological toll of being far from home, far from loved ones, among bizarre people you struggle to communicate with—or if they did write about it, it was only in the abstract. Maybe you can help some young kid be better prepared in the future if you describe it in detail. Lac hears the voices of children outside. Whatever threats from outsiders kept everyone on edge those first few days seem to have fizzled away.
He tries to laugh off the sick feeling of hopelessness. Back to the practical matters at hand: They usually respond when you shove and shout back, so do it as soon as you can, before the tension has a chance to escalate. Your willingness to start a fight will be your chief means of preventing a fight. No is your automatic set-point. The response to any and every demand. Seriously, now would be a good time to learn how to recognize a lost cause when you see one.
Whenever those European explorers lost their way in one of those blank spaces on the map, they had only two choices: I first need to get connected with them socially. In between the third and fourth repetition of the nightmare, though, he had another dream, a much more pleasant one. How about this heat? Care to join me? A British accent even. Could he live off that, he wonders now, if he had to, for three months? How long would his coffee and crackers and sardines and peanut butter last?
He squats down to push the barrel out from in front of the door. Before unlatching it, though, he lowers his head and sighs. After finally unlatching the door, he reaches for his shotgun. But am I going to take it into the shabono with me? With all those women and kids around? He steps out of the hut and walks over to where the first wall of the addition is taking shape. Lac pretends nothing has happened and carries on like before, offering them fishhooks and line in exchange for their labor, which really occupies a conceptual space between labor and play—goofing around.
They are kids after all. When Waddu-ewantow ducks out from under the lowermost edge of the sloping shabono roof and saunters up to the building site, Lac eyes his shotgun, measuring the distance, estimating the time it would take to lift, aim, and fire. You can do whatever you feel like doing to me after that.
But Waddu-ewantow does something unexpected. He walks up, flashes his sly, mischievous grin, and then kneels down to reach into the mud. Or s tart with the first chapter. Lac wakes the next morning to the sound of rain and buffeting wind. Patting himself down, feeling around for the shotgun, sitting up to check if the door is still closed and locked, he hurriedly runs down the list of top worries. For now at least, all is well. Sitting upright in his hammock, he lifts the mosquito net, ducks under it, and steps over to the window, which, despite being tucked under the eaves, is letting in a constant spray of mist and irregular spurts of larger droplets.
The clay floor at his feet is cold and slimy. Outside, he sees the wind lashing the tops of the trees enwrapping the shabono and the surrounding gardens—some invisible winged monster charging through the branches and leaves with destructive abandon, hissing and howling in fury. The trees are so gargantuan, and the effect of the wind so violent, Lac feels exposed in a way unfamiliar to most people who grow up in a city—though he remembers storms coming in from over Lake Michigan that inspired in him a similar feeling of awe before the enormous power of nature.
Do we have any business making homes in places where the weather can, with no warning, wipe the earth clean of us with but a swipe or two of its monstrous invisible tail? And it all started here, in places like this, where people were made to feel just as tiny, just as vulnerable and insignificant before the forces of nature and the ceaseless unfolding of time. Perhaps the one grew out of a response to the other.
What are the chances it would lift off the foundation, or be smashed to smithereens by flying branches, a few days after I arrive?
Remar catalunya, Lleida (Lleida),
He laughs, steps from the window over to his trunk, and starts the process, just complicated enough to be mildly irritating, of digging out some crackers and a jar of peanut butter. Then he checks his pots to see if he has enough water to make coffee. Lac has heard these storms can last as little as ten minutes, but for all he knows it could go on all day.
As if on cue, the wind gives the walls another stiff shove, and a few roaches actually fall from the ceiling onto the floor nearby. It would be nice, he thinks, to lie back in my hammock and read for a couple of hours. He has yet to empty his bladder or void his bowels this morning, and the first sip of his coffee aggravates them both. He breathes the air in slowly through his nostrils. Smell is like an added dimension to every scene out here, one people in cities lose all but the vaguest awareness of through aggressively hygienic neglect. With the door open, though, he hears shouting.
His knees pop forward, a reflex that drops him into a crouch. He ducks behind the doorframe. Still hiding behind the door, Lac pricks his ears, but the rain spattering against the ground and the leaves of the distant trees drones loudly on, overwhelmed only by brief insistent gusts of wind.
The sounds and smells are as violent and impatient as the people, he thinks, maintaining their relentless assault on his sense of security and on his… what? On his own patience, his own forbearance. And when they finally succeed—if you ever let them succeed—in toppling that forbearance, what then? Do you go berserk and start throwing haymakers? Would you go on a shooting spree with your shotgun? Killing even one of them would almost certainly mean you getting killed in turn.
And anyway, like it or not, you need these people, not just for your work but for your survival. Lac sees nothing but the water-laden trees, whose extra burden makes seem even more outsized and otherworldly, which in turn makes the wind seem even more absurdly powerful as it barrels through the branches, treating their solid mass to swirling liquid upheaval. He steps out beside the door to piss, sure that the downpour will effectively obliterate any trace. When he hears the shouting again, he turns toward the shabono, the obvious source of the sounds.
What are they up to now? Lac steps back inside the hut, dripping wet already. They must have some ritual for greeting the storm, he thinks. I have to get over there. He goes to his trunk and sifts around until he finds a greenish gray tarp he plans to wrap around himself, using it as a poncho. Charging out into the storm, he wonders how safe it is to duck down and waddle through the passage into the enclosure now, when no one can hear him announcing himself, amid whatever commotion is taking place on the other side of the massive wall. And anyway their having deadly intentions whenever they loose an arrow is hardly encouraging.
Shuffling along sideways in his deep squat, Lac feels his butthole pinch tight again in commemoration of his first day in the field. Once again, he emerges inside the shabono safe and intact, without encountering any reception at all, violent or otherwise. Not everyone is hiding though. On the far end, Lac sees a smattering of men moving about, swift and aggressive. Trying not to be rude, as difficult as it is to know what would constitute rudeness out here in the jungle, Lac scans the rest of the house, the hammocks, the plantains hanging in thick profusion from the rafters.
Bahikoawa himself is nowhere to be seen, but there is another woman here, along with a bunch of scared kids. His sons and daughters? The other woman is older, having already lost her shape—all those pregnancies, all those heavy loads of firewood—but still what Lac considers young. If she is another wife, is it only the headman who gets to have more than one? Still on the edge of the house, still getting soaked beneath his tarp, Lac turns back to the battle taking place across the plaza. Lac traverses the outermost rim of the courtyard, making his way to where the action is taking place.
He sees all the frightened children, the mothers, some ignoring the kids, some trying to comfort them. Or is it a more instinctive fear, deeper somehow, more primal than any conditioned response? He turns back to the half-fighting, half-dancing men and listens for any recognizable words in their chant-shouting. As a kid, Lac was fascinated with the Plains Indians, the Cheyenne, the Blackfoot, the Comanche, proud atop their horses, upright, their dignity on casual display in their slow, deliberate movements and parsimonious expenditures of energy.
Watching them hurl both imprecations and invisible projectiles at the storm, at the spirits they must believe are driving it—or do they think the winds actually are spirits? Boas would be appalled by my thoughts right now, Lac thinks, quietly chastising himself. But here it is, right in front of me. It may merely be my own idiosyncratic impression, and it may say more about my own character and my own upbringing than theirs, but these Indians give every appearance, however physically mature, of a perpetually stunted mindset.
This is that wildness that held you in such thrall.