Hecho el examen de periodismo, en el que relaté con mi mayor serenidad un artículo de opinión sobre un tema digno del diario Qué!, respondí 6 de las 10 preguntas de actualidad absoultamente prescindibles y traduje a la casi perfección un artículo del inglés, me centro ahora en la prueba del día 4, Macroeconomía II.
Básicamente, se trata de estudiar los modelos clásico, keynesiano y de síntesis, toda una maravilla de la abstracción sistémica, que calculo que explica un 25%-siendo generoso- de la actual realidad.
Confiado, he dejado pasar los días deambulando por la calle y durmiendo en bancos en una "be poor experience" que me ha costado 750€-hasta ser pobre sale caro- y he dejado de lado la seriedad con la que debo asumir este examen. Tengo que aprobar las 3 asignaturas restantes para, en caso de pasar la prueba de periodismo, poder acceder a la carrera definitivamente.
¿por qué cuento toda esta mierda, a caso se supone que le puede interesar a alguien mi preocupación académica?. No sufráis, prometo no convertir Vanity Dust en un flojo diario Little Kitty. Promise. Propongo que, si alguno de vosotros quiere sugerir un tema para que escriba acerca de él, no dude en hacerlo vía comentario.
Básicamente, se trata de estudiar los modelos clásico, keynesiano y de síntesis, toda una maravilla de la abstracción sistémica, que calculo que explica un 25%-siendo generoso- de la actual realidad.
Confiado, he dejado pasar los días deambulando por la calle y durmiendo en bancos en una "be poor experience" que me ha costado 750€-hasta ser pobre sale caro- y he dejado de lado la seriedad con la que debo asumir este examen. Tengo que aprobar las 3 asignaturas restantes para, en caso de pasar la prueba de periodismo, poder acceder a la carrera definitivamente.
¿por qué cuento toda esta mierda, a caso se supone que le puede interesar a alguien mi preocupación académica?. No sufráis, prometo no convertir Vanity Dust en un flojo diario Little Kitty. Promise. Propongo que, si alguno de vosotros quiere sugerir un tema para que escriba acerca de él, no dude en hacerlo vía comentario.
11 inputs:
Ffantasiant,Amor a mi descobre
los grans secrets c·als pus suptils amaga,e mon jorn clar als hòmens és nit fosqua,e visch de ço que persones no tasten.
Tant en Amorl'esperit meu contempla,que par del tot fora del cors s'aparte,car mos desigs no són trobats en home,sinó en tal que la carn punt no·l torbe.
joder!!!
a qué esperas para estudiar
tampoco es tan dificil la macroeconomía que la estoy estudiando con mi hijo mayor...jaaa
y Keynes es fácil también...
Vanity, el sábado me toca dar clases de Pilates para aprobar. el domingo teoría...
así que empiezo mañana a ensayar los ejercicios que voy a presentar...
y...
the future is urz!!
beso
celos
Yo creo que deberías contarnos de donde sacaste el hombre con peluca rubia que pusiste recientemente en tu cabecera. Empezar por ahí no estaría mal...:P
Cuando seas periodista...
Cuando seas periodista harás todo lo que no tuviste tiempo de hacer mientras vivías.
Por fin tendrás tiempo para ti mismo, tienes que prometer ser muy egoista.
Te veo delante de mí: ”No creas que pienso quedarme aquí sentado pudriéndome”.
Por fin podrás decirle al presidente y al ministro de Defensa
lo que piensas de ellos.
Para no hablar de lo que le dirás a tu mujer, que ”te robó la vida”.
Serás libre como la gaviota que te encantaba contemplar a través de la ventana del sauna.
Viajarás alrededor del mundo y a otros lugares exóticos.
Cásate, por Dios, con la hija del hotelero, siempre fue tu deseo más secreto.
Has iniciado por correspondencia tus estudios de oratoria, con la boca llena de piedras, como los grandes maestros.
En otoño compondrás un cuarteto de cuerda para incendio en la hierba, escarcha nocturna, composta y puesta del sol.
Como Wittgenstein aprenderás a silbar todos los lieder y sinfonías
de Schubert, excepto Alte kameraden.
Fortalecerás tus músculos abandonados en los últimos años con el método Atlas: ¡levantando el globo terráqueo sobre tus hombros!
Cuando seas periodista nadie te impedirá recuperar lo que se llevó la vida.
¿En qué te has gastado 750 pavos en la calle?
¿Alguna fiesta de erasmus recientemente?
No escatimes en detalles.
THE BEAUTIFUL ILLUSIONS OF HYBRIS AND DESTRUCTION
KALI
Kali, you
who cure us of demons
and blond evil
Kali, you
who mercifully accompany death
in order to reap
your maidenhood, over and over again,
Kali, you
who keep company with war
in order to wake up
on smoking battlefields, astride your beloved,
in the belief that you killed, danced Shiva, your master, to death
in the belief that you killed him, he who smilingly dreams it all,
in the belief that you killed Shiva, Maheswara, Mritunjaya, Mahakla
******
and thousands upon thousands suffer in the dream, suffer in the dream,
and he stops you, he stops you because he loves you,
like Parvati, your star-sister daughter of Himalaya, the golden,
but also as you are, the dark one, the possessed and dazzling,Ganga’s sister, goddess of the floods,
with epidemics in your lap,
and like the one who begins to glow in the eyes of the dying
mother, you, inaccessible, but with your fingernails in me, in the night,
whose sunrises,
and steaming dawns, mornings
and forenoons, and the white
heat, trembling, burn
my eyes to parched tunnels,
where the sixth millennium
of your night and the inexorable
sings itself past its beginning,
and I know that your nights
last four hundred and thirty-two thousand years,
and I know that it all gets worse,
and I know that you are compelled,
and I know that I will eventually refuse,
and even more for those whom I love,
but the smoke drifts, and the ash,
from the insects, the pyre
near Kalighat,
and the fires are, and the night
*****
and the answers drift, like smoke and ash, in, into my room,
and in, into the letters home,
and I wait, I wait
to offer my refusal
while your fingernails
write in me
mother, you
who put Kaliyuga
in a coma,
mother, you
who are intoxication and wisdom, rhythm
and yoni, the blood-steaming
simmering around atmalingam
*****
and I am here for your love,
and I am here for that which is terrible,
and I offer you ganja and glowing hibiscus,
and I offer you the most costly of all alphabets
*****
mother, you
who rightfully punish
those who acclaim you – because they worship you
as the infinite mother you are,
and you do not want acclaim, you want nothing,
you are the rutting heat of the cremation groves and it is
life that wants
you to dance Kaliyuga out of time,
for infinity’s breathing and also for me
who am compelled to draw near to you, Kali, Mahakali,
and you are the Mother, the Mother in Atman and beyond Atman,
you are
the survivor, the latterday, the only and the eternal,
and like a sister
to Mary or I do not know who or what, but perhaps
you resemble Imanna and also Astarte of Aram-naharim,
and punish me – I love you
vast,
covering the skies,
and with hair like wild darkness
storming around the indigo fire you also are,
you dance in your loincloth of severed arms,
and with your hips rolling, and your breasts
heaving, quivering and heavy with wonders,
and with annihilation waiting
in the jewel in the pupil in your third eye, the eye
in the pudenda above the crescent moon between your eyebrows
and you dance and you dance, you dance
before the illusions that constantly ascend your children,
and you dance beside the precipice
in yourself,
and the universe in a quake,
and you dance
and you love, with that long, bloody tongue
hanging down between your breasts, that are so heavy with
wonders
that your are forced to ensnare
the light, all light, the universe’s every source
of light, in your hair, in the gale
around the peace in your third eye, the eye that is you,
and you rotate lap and darkness
as you go to meet Shiva, and he awaits you, he awaits you
with the song from thousands of blue-sparkling bees
swarming, swarming around his bursting sex, the sex
that steams with the monsoons, and is fragrant, fragrant
with holy oil and jasmine,
and which he has made red-hot, red-hot for you,
and the kokila sings in your darkness,
and the kokila sings in the jungles between your thighs,
and the desire strikes like hungry tigresses, strikes
into your crevices that well forth fragrances of the promise
of oblivion and returns,
and you dance your way closer, and you dance
until you straddle, straddle the heat, and you ride your
beloved
through wave upon wave, until you ride on the wave
that rises, rise like serpentine fire, swelling
through emptiness upon emptiness, until the uttermost
nothingness
where you meet yourself, and your lap
explodes in the jewel in the pupil in your third eye
*****
and the seven suns, the seven suns, reveal themselves
beyond time’s third horizon, and burn, burn everything
to silvering ash, when Vishnu, on his white stallion, rides in
ending and turning Kaliyuga into the rebirths
*****
and you are infinitely beautiful, you are infinitely
beautiful,
and your ear pendants are the gilded corpses of children,
and your ear pendants are cries of birth
and your necklaces are plaited cobras
bedecked with the crania of your sons, the alphabet
that created the world and prematurely spared its death,
and you swing the bloody broad-axe
and the demon’s severed head, in triumph,
and bless and show: be not afraid,
he shall gain his life who loses it for me
*****
incomprehensible, cruel and beautiful,
raging and violent, gentle and abundant mercy,
infinite
mother, bluish black
and naked, eternally
virgin, constantly loving,
dancing and loving, straddling death, riding
your beloved – loving
and dancing devastation for the sake of the births,
grave and bosom, unfathomable, dancing amok and yet gentle
om – kang – kalika –namah
for devastation for the sake of the births
*****
and I know that I am near
when at last,
when at last I am able
to call Christ mother
Empeza por saber que se dice "traduje"... y no "traducí"... ese sería un buen comienzo...
Extraño que me digas obsenidades..
Purque: es OBSCENIDADES...
¡jajajajajaja!
jajaj! es verdad!
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