Los papeles de Boris

The recent trend in media to unerline the nationality or the country of origin when revealing the terrorist identity, is just a long line of tradition that started with the 1 st Industrial Revolution. Ever since we have become used to stereotype people’s country of origin by linking it to some certain common trades. Turkish truck drivers, Polish plumbers, Cuban doctors, Argentinian psychologists, Mexican gardeners… it’s just a small part of a wide range of stereotypes commonly found in most of the parts of the Western culture. The latest version of it is the media using the nationality/contry of origin of the terrorist in the same context as the indictment. In a way, it is a normal response to the basic need of our brains to seek for coherence within the reality that tries to interpret. That is why we love the news headlines. But, the danger comes when the ethics are no longer involved in the process. One of the most absurd examples of it I lived not long after comin...

Soon about to turn 40 and according to the general understanding I should be considered a grown up person. But I don’t believe there is such thing. Especially not with men. It somehow doesn’t come together as the “Only difference between men and boys is the price of their toys”. And that’s quite a relief that helps  to stem out the pressure from the codes of "normal" (perhaps thats why they call it the norms) that the society intents to stick up upon us.  I believe that there are only two kinds of people:  a) those who gave up and accepted to be considered Grown Up.  b) those who understand that living is a process and to be Grown Up would mean to have failed. Instead, they keep on Growing Up. I fell much better surrounded by the second group. If you wanna know if you are a GrownUp or still Growing Up, check out The Marble Machine (music instrument using 2000 marbles). 

Protegido con mi manto de invisibilidad, observaba una mujer pasar al lado del perro que justo acaba de cagar en el césped al lado del supermecado. Embutida en unos tejanos bien apretados y una corta chaqueta de cuero la mujer de aspecto subsahariano, iba pronunciando unos sonidos inteligibles y tras pasar un par de metros del perro, se bajó el pantalón y se agachó para soltar un sonorro chorro de mierda y meado, acompañado de sus  correspondientes pedos. Prefiero creer que tengo el don de invisibilidad que pensar que la presencia de un tío de 1.80 y bien cabezota que sujetaba la correa del perro no tenía importancia alguna para para la mujer. Pero por mucho que me hubiera   gustado, no tengo el don de invisibilidad y lo que en realidad pasó fue que a la mujer mi presencia le importaba una mierda (nunca mejor dicho). La escena sucedió ayer en Valence, un pequeño pueblo de Francia, seguramente conocido por algo pero ahora me da pereza googlearlo. Cecilia, Diego y yo...