Ya sé que muchos quieren mantener 'secretos' por aquí;. noche tras noche de la luna llena. lo que se quiere ser se centran en el campo de la poesía contemporánea española e asoma: noche despejada: etapas: la primera abarca la vida en la capital cubana, que Pajón ha descrito como “." /> Ya sé que muchos quieren mantener 'secretos' por aquí;. noche tras noche de la luna llena. lo que se quiere ser se centran en el campo de la poesía contemporánea española e asoma: noche despejada: etapas: la primera abarca la vida en la capital cubana, que Pajón ha descrito como “." />
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La vida te niega los bienes y la grandeza hasta que dejas de querer bienes y grandeza y comienzas a servir. La vida te lastima, te hiere, te atormenta, hasta que dejas tus caprichos y berrinches y agradeces respirar. Cuando nos preocupamos, peleamos; cuando nos quejamos, peleamos; Cuando nos enfurecemos, peleamos; Cuando nos angustiamos, peleamos. O resistirnos a ser lo que somos. Rendirse no es debilidad.

Hay una enorme fortaleza en ello. Aceptar que las perdimos, es la victoria. La voz interna que quiere salir, deja que lo haga. No hay guerra mejor ganada que la que se pierde en busca de la paz. El universo conspira a nuestro favor no en nuestra contra. El universo quiere darte no quitarte.

Generaciones tras generaciones van cargando dichos eventos. Nunca he sabido si esa frase: "el amor puede con todo" se refiere a algo constructivo o destructivo. Con frecuencia, sin darnos cuenta, lo llevamos a su lado destructivo y hacemos de nuestra historia de amor, una historia que puede con nuestra libertad, la echa abajo, la pisotea y puede con nuestro amor propio, nuestra salud, Esa venda en los ojos no hace bien y no es propia del amor. No te mientas.

No es amor que te prohiba o limite el encuentro con tus amigas. No es amor que amenace con el suicidio. No es amor que quiera que todo tu tiempo sea suyo. Es necesario abrir los ojos, quitarnos la venda y darnos cuenta que el amor verdadero, el que nutre, el que sostiene, el que hace bien, ese amor anda con los ojos muy abiertos. Para amar se requiere eso, abrir los ojos, mirarnos al espejo y darnos cuenta que No merecemos el infierno que vivimos.

Abrirlos para ser valientes y aceptar que el cuento de hadas, solo es un espejismo. Escribo este post por y para todas aquellas mujeres, amigas, cercanas muy cercanas y para todas aquellas mujeres que no conozco. Me siento enferma. Como perdida en un bosque. Seguramente, cada terapia que he hecho me ha dado semillas que he ido dejando en el camino. Casi no se nota que florezco.

En este proceso requiero darme el beneficio de la duda y confiar que a cada uno de mis inviernos le sigue su primavera. Entrega todo a la Tierra y al Cielo, riega cuando puedas, reza y baila pero luego, deja que florezca lo que debe y que las hojas secas se caigan solas. Y nunca pienses que ya no hay nada bueno para ti, solo tienes que dejar de retener lo que hay que dejar ir.

Los errores hacen parte de la naturaleza humana, pero no nos definen. Cuando mantenemos por mucho tiempo el enojo hacia otra persona, este se convierte en rencor. Nadie necesita el rencor para vivir. Es necesario mirarlos con bondad y generosidad. Natalia R. Revisa cuidadosamente sus signos, sus nudos, sus heridas, sus palabras, sus sonrisas, sus historias, las pasadas y las presentes.

Y con ello, va colocando cuidadosamente una a una, las estudiantes del grupo, hasta completarlo. Clase tras clase constato la magia y el trabajo del universo en esta labor de selecc There are isolated cities with all the present-day technology and comforts, but between them extend hour after monotonous hour of dusty roads in permanent conflict with the desert.

They connect the 21st century with the time when Australia and Gibraltar were penal colonies of Great Britain, the era of pioneers, caravans, convicts, bushrangers fleeing from the law. Even the sections running beside kilometre after kilometre of incredibly beautiful beaches, images which initially hypnotised you but which, through endless repetition, are becoming humdrum as they stretch out in front of you for far too long. I covered thousands of kilometres on board Greyhound buses driven turn and turn about by pairs of men dressed in uniforms consisting of short-sleeved shirts and shorts, knee socks and boots.

Along the infinite straightness, we occasionally came across a 4-wheel drive heading in the opposite direction with an impressive display of antennas for satellite communication, black jerrycans full of petrol and white ones full of water. But not one of those texts described the causes of the rift after so many years working together to build a strong, educational and Catholic institution in the Far West.

We travel because not all the answers are to be found in libraries. It was true. The museum in New Norcia explained the history of the monastery on the basis of a myth whose beginning left no room for doubt: Rosendo Salvado, against all the odds, far from both his home and the Vatican, was able to civilise that piece of inauspicious territory.

Among many other personal objects on display in one of the glass cabinets were nine gold teeth. The remains of a guffaw. Entonces, I think it was the rivalry between New Subiaco and New Norcia which ended their friendship, because it was like a personal project for each of them… But the real reason for the rupture is a misterio, yes sir, a huge misterio. Fifteen years later, I read that an independent investigation was recently carried out into the sexual abuse of minors by members of Australian religious orders throughout the 20th century.

Serra, after the rift between the two men, reinvented himself as the founder of the order of nuns known as the Oblates of the Most Holy Redeemer. He died The destiny of both men was to rest surrounded by desert. Occasionally I remember how, after a coffee and a small glass of aromes, Mauro and Paulino would argue whether English or Spanish is spoken in Heaven.

Sometimes I picture them in their metaphysical stratosphere where, in between grimaces and wild gesticulations, they continue to argue endlessly but quietly, very quietly, so quietly that the sound becomes confused with the silence.

III While the huts and cabins of the earliest days were converted over the decades into a monastery, with its own church, mill, vegetable gardens and fruit orchards, farm, orphanage and schools for white boys, for white girls, and for Aboriginals , at the same time Perth — the closest city — was transforming itself into the great metropolis of the western half of the island continent, four thousand kilometres from Sydney.

The increasing lack of Aboriginals to convert, educate, and civilise, led the monks of New Norcia to decide to open a chapter further north, in the Kimberley Mountains, one of the most rugged regions of Australia. They christened it the Drysdale River Mission. All the Spanish monks passed through there.

He provided a mail service twice a week to the crocodile farmers, and the cattle stations abandoned by the hand of God. That same God brought so many young Spanish novices to the other side of the planet, to the old mission whose indigenous name is Kalunburu.

It is now a reserve managed by the Aboriginals themselves, traditional owners of the land which the Benedictine Order had borrowed for such a long time. The feeling of being far from anywhere. One propeller. The other. How they roared. The landing strips, between plantations or groves or rivers where four-to-five-metre long crocodiles weighing over half a tonne were being patiently fattened for years until it was time for them to be caught with a net and helicopter and then killed.

Crocodile meat — a taste somewhere between chicken and fish. Crocodile skin for luxury bags. The postman-pilot dropped off packages, spare parts, medication and letters at each property. Then we arrived at Kalumburu. She worked in the orphanage in Perth run by her Order until she succeeded in returning to her Aboriginal people after what she felt was banishment.

And her guffaws, which competed in volume with the voices of the children playing basketball and the music being rehearsed for Mass. Her obituary says that, after suffering a fall towards the end of , she was hospitalised in Wyndham, the closest town. But she persuaded the doctors to let her go home for Christmas. She died in her bed on the 19th of December as she was saying her rosary to combat the pain.

I know I visited Cervantes, a town which arose because a whaling ship was wrecked there in Her Spanish captain paid a very strange homage to the Quijote in that land of kangaroos, convicts and loincloths. By contrast, the faces and voices of each one of those unlikely monks and nuns remain in the high-definition which only the most intense encounters of truly memorable trips deliver. Fifteen years have gone by, but I remember that moment as if it had happened at quarter to nine this morning, just after that first coffee.

Era el uno de septiembre de dos mil catorce. Al llegar a su apartamento de Madrid, C. El cine era otro lujo. Para ilustrarlo, C. Chavales descalzos haciendo skate. Tipos volviendo a casa con la tabla de surf a cuestas. Mal, naturalmente.

Se encontraba en un estado agudo de ansiedad. Por si acaso se equivocaba, C. Una costumbre hermana de los tan necesarios — incomprendidos y en ocasiones injustos y molestos — prejuicios. Admirables, estos australianos. Estaban agradecidos, pero sus primeros recuerdos El padre de J. Fue a un supermercado. No era vino. Era zumo de grosella concentrado. Estaban educados para compartir y cuidar los espacios comunes. Nadie cruzaba una calle de cualquier manera, por ejemplo.

Era una sociedad muy conservadora, sin demasiada mano izquierda. El cartel estaba sobre una roca que miraba hacia un acantilado, con el mar debajo. Si estaba achispado y con tiempo, C. Con respecto al tema de la mano izquierda, C. Tras una caminata bajo una lluvia mansa y persistente, bajaron una pendiente pronunciada hacia el mar.

Era regordete y bajito. La prueba innegable de la mentira. Salvo los exiguos honorarios — dados los precios de los bienes y servicios australianos — claro. A sus actos acudieron bastantes lectores, sobre todo mujeres, y compraron su novela. Un verdadero lujo. Esos ejemplos le bastaban y sobraban para calificar a los aussies de pueblerinos y quedarse tan ancho. Resultaba tan refrescante como molesto.

Salvo en las contadas ocasiones en las que C. Al conocerles daban ganas de portarse bien, de no criticar, ni insultar, ni ironizar, ni despotricar, ni resoplar, ni escupir, ni tirarse pedos, vaya. Lo eran. Eres un verdadero cascarrabias. Praderas de un verde Como Estados Unidos, Rusia o Argentina. Subieron por Mount Macedon. Muchas se quemaron en el gran incendio de Otros murieron sin tratar de salvar a nadie. Como si colgara de su pecho una medalla.

En realidad algunas personas le preguntaron a C. Ojos, bocas, coronas de reyes derrocados. Hanging Rock, batida por el viento, no era un lugar agradable para vivir. El contacto de C. Le parecieron infantiles. Siluetas humanas y de peces y de animales de un solo trazo, blancas, muy sencillas. Ya en Madrid, en una parrillada familiar, su hermana M. Su tragedia era igual de horrible. Su destino, Los recuerdos de Australia se fueron haciendo jirones. Muchos perdieron color, nitidez y sentido.

Pero a C. Y eso le encantaba. Aquello no era cierto, la vio un par de veces. Una noche a C. Le echaba de menos. Eso lo puede leer cualquiera en la red. Algo faltaba en el paisaje. Los recuerdos del viaje se encontraban en baldas oscuras y apartadas de la mente de C.

Ya no estaban ordenados mediante un discurso, verbalmente. Fue en , en una cena con amigos. La pesadilla del agujero regresaba. Ese mapa en blanco que era desde su partida. Desde entonces, cuando se hablaba de Australia, contaba aquella historia como si hablara solo o en duermevela. It was 1 September When C. A day and a half. A new record. He was very pleased because he considered sleeping to be the most enjoyable and worthwhile activity in life.

His excessive sleeping could be explained in part because, as soon as he got up, he passed a kidney stone which must have been sapping his energy for some time without his realising it. The first few times he told stories about his trip to Australia to family members and friends, they listened with a certain amount of interest, at least initially.

That country in Oceania, almost on the other side of the world, is a rare destination for Spaniards, since it is so far away and expensive to get to. The following were the topics he spoke about. Alcohol was also prohibitively expensive: mediocre wines were sold as if they were made with the blood of princes, and beer was liquid gold.

Movies were another luxury. There were wonderful cheap Asian restaurants, but money disappeared without you even noticing. It was no surprise both were among the ten most liveable cities in the world on various lists. Surfers vs hipsters, if you like. To illustrate this point, C. Barefoot kids skateboarding. People heading home carrying surfboards. The warm breeze, the blue ocean.

Tall, tanned, blond mothers with tall, tanned, blond children. He was really amused by the way the inhabitants of these two cities talked about each other. Melburnians described Sydneysiders as fatuous and brain dead; in return, Sydneysiders considered Melburnians boring and pretentious. That eternal obsession of comparing yourself with a neighbour of equivalent size. For starters, apart from the cigarettes you had in an already opened pack, you could bring only fifty cigarettes into the country without paying an importation tax.

Circumstances — which often conflict with our desires — led him to buy his first pack some thirty hours after he had finished his five Spanish Marlboro Lights. During what little free time he had enjoyed, he had been incapable of locating a tobacconist. Were they underground? Inside police stations? He was starting to enter a state of acute anxiety. It was becoming impossible to connect with people or his surroundings, no matter how interesting he found them.

There was no branding on the pack, just photos of illnesses caused by tobacco — so horrible they could have been classified as pornographic — accompanied by exaggerated and depressing messages. Moreover, they cost a fortune. Weeks later, as his resources diminished, he was obliged to buy cheap cigarettes — perhaps Chinese — brand-name Longreach, and sold in packs of They were so repugnant they probably caused the diseases illustrated on the packs in a matter of minutes.

He threw them away. Such persecution turned him into a neurotic who smoked compulsively and spoke about little else with the poor Australians who chatted with him. Australians were great travellers and it was normal to have lived in several countries and to speak several languages. Just in case he was wrong, C. In reality, C. A sister-habit to prejudices, so necessary, misunderstood and, on occasion, so troublesome and unfair. According to C. Its isolation, physically — so far from the rest of the world — and culturally and spiritually — so far from their Western cousins — motivated them to board the first departing plane.

The older Australians he had met were often Aus Their identity was equivocal. They were nomads who had ended up in Australia. They were grateful, but their earliest memories were far away, in Croatia, the Ukraine, South Africa or Greece. He had the feeling they were sort of stateless. The history of their children and grandchildren would be different. If he was speaking of identity, he would usually recall an anecdote about immigration. In a pseudo-Spanish restaurant in Melbourne, he met J.

He was a very pleasant guy and they chatted as they ate a piece of toast with a rubbery anchovy which would have caused an uproar had it been served in any neighbourhood bar in Spain. His father arrived in Australia with only the clothes on his back. He was a bricklayer. The Anglos put him up in a hostel, gave him the basic necessities and put him to work from dawn till dusk. It was all very decent, but they were Anglicans, so there were no smiles or warm, affectionate gestures.

As is wellknown, the Anglican God has never smiled, and definitely not at the ignorant. He was a labourer, a nobody with no education, and he could only count on his own courage and effort. Earlier, when he was living in Spain, he used drink wine with his meals.

Cheap, young red wines, almost always poor quality. He went to a supermarket. He saw a bottle of wine and he bought it, even though it was very expensive. When he got home, he opened it somewhat nervously. Such luxury made him feel excited.

He poured himself a glass and drank deeply. He burst into tears. What was he doing here? Why was he so ignorant, so useless? Immigration was a controversial and painful topic. Australia had gone from welcoming millions of Europeans after World War II to closing its borders ever-more-tightly thanks to increasingly aggressive politics. Now, Asian immigrants — of many different nationalities, but arriving mainly via Indonesia — were detained on Christmas Island, an Australian island with a special status when it came to matters of immigration: refugees had no rights there.

The detention centre could hold as many as 2, people, and from there, they were sent to other countries in the region — Papua-New Guinea, Nauru — with which the Aussie government had Agreements about such matters. If one were being generous, that piece of legal trickery would be considered sad. And the fact that the name of the containment island was Christmas, could only be seen as a macabre joke.

Immigration always led to arguments, and C. Citizens — and there they really were citizens, not subjects disguised as citizens, as in so many other countries without a strong democratic tradition — had at their disposal community BBQs and picnic tables in various public places and nobody vandalised them. They were respectful and law-abiding. No-one jay-walked, for example. They certainly did tend to get out of hand when they drank, which many of them did at breakneck speed and to excess in order to get drunk, rather than for the pleasure of drinking.

It was a very conservative society without much tact. There were signs everywhere banning things or threatening exorbitant fines. Could it have something to do with the country being founded by convicts and their guards?

If you were a bit wild or absent-minded, you had to be a millionaire. The sign was on top of a rock which overlooked a cliff, with the sea down below. He lit a cigarette, watched the flight of the seagulls, felt vertigo, and was on the verge of throwing himself into the void and putting an end to his absurd life. Coming back to the topic of inflexibility, if you broke a rule — crossing the street wherever you felt like it, for instance — people looked at you as if you were a serial killer, and he had been told off or even yelled at for doing so more than once.

Australians were admirable, but they were also strict, almost inhuman. He usually linked this topic to his Latin nature. He was a rogue, belonging to a culture where ulterior motives are more important than initial intentions. Various Latinos he met there found Australians — the native-born, pink-skinned ones — extremely boring.

They thought the country was a real pain and dreamt of leaving it as soon as possible. But the lifestyle was so good… Do we Latinos prefer to live in a more just country, where almost everything works well although it might be a bit boring, or are we attracted by our own imperfect corruption which offers more passion, fun and happiness? Do we prefer a place where life seems wonderful, and most of the inhabitants appear healthy, look as if they play sport, and have a reasonably friendly manner, or are we allowing ourselves to be deceived by appearances.

Keeping in mind that happiness is a subjective measure, who is happier: the inhabitants of the richest and most democratic nations or those of the boisterous Latino ones? Does it really matter to us or does it only concern us? At this point, he always drew laughter from his listeners, and this despite the fact that his friends and family — just like him — spent all their time criticising Spain and buying imaginary houses and foreign citizenships in places far away.

If he was tipsy and had enough time, C. On the matter of sensitivity, C. The story he never told took place in Ku-ring-gai National Park, north of Sydney. He visited it at dawn with S. After a walk in the light, but persistent, rain, they strolled down a slope towards the sea. There was a large, bright-green field dotted with trees, a covered picnic area and then a beach. There, finally, after more than ten days in Australia he saw his first classic Australian animal.

Much more so, for example, than some hysterical black turkeys with red faces, crests and yellow jowls which moved about the field like embittered little widows. The wallabies grew in confidence and ended up eating out of his hand. They watched him out of the corners of their eyes as they were chewing.

And the noise of their jaws broke the early morning silence. Suddenly, a 4-wheel drive appeared as if by magic, and a park ranger got out. He was short and chubby. He had pink skin, small eyes, a snub nose and a pale moustache. He was there to collect the park entrance fee, and politely greeted them with a touch of his fingertips to his khaki hat. The visitors told him there was no need as they were leaving; they wanted to save themselves the entry fee.

The ranger, patient and easy-going, told them about the ban on The visitors assured him that they knew about the ban and that it would never have occurred to them to feed the wallabies. They, in fact, suspected that the ranger had seen them doing so. A few metres behind them, orange-coloured mandarin segments were clearly visible on top of the electric-green grass — irrefutable proof of their lie.

The man calmly nodded, and glanced left and right with his little eyes, weighing up his next step. His hands played with his khaki hat. The park ranger put his hat back on, gave them a friendly goodbye, got into his 4-wheel drive and left. He charged them neither the entry fee nor the fine they deserved. In defence of the writer and his female friend, after a good laugh, they acknowledged their gratitude at having encountered such a well-meaning ranger.

The organisation and the hotel were perfect, maybe too good, as were the people he dealt with — like CS, the Chilean journalist. Moreover, he coincided with J. The festival itself was very lively. Quite a few readers, especially women, attended his events and bought his novel.

A real luxury. But this takes us It was noticeable in the gastronomy, the buildings — historically recent — and the fact that in certain places, people always greeted each other when they met, and stopped for a brief, polite chat. These examples were sufficient, and were more than enough for him to classify Aussies as provincial, and feel very pleased with himself.

He used to talk about the pleasant walk he had along the shore at Dee Why. He walked among exotic plants, surrounded by the sounds of birds, with the blue sea down below him. It was all marvellous, but he had to greet the fifteen people he came across, and was obliged to talk about the weather with four of them. He ended up wanting to shut himself indoors and not go outdoors again for a few days.

According to him, that sort of affability was only found in young, not very sophisticated, societies. It was as refreshing as it was irritating. Except on those few occasions when C. Once you got to know them, you felt like behaving yourself, and not being critical, insulting, or ironic; not rant or rave, grunt, spit, or fart, even. Thanks to them, you discovered that there was more insipid goodness, absurd chitchat and banal conformity inside you than you had ever suspected.

But, what the hell, you had to admit that they were better people than you! They were. Full stop. Give over with the unhealthy, unfair thoughts, he told himself. Unless their basements and gardens are full of bodies, like the Belgians, right? The first time he left Melbourne, it was for an excursion in an electric-blue Subaru with L. They left the city heading northwest and were soon in open country.

Lush green fields, some cows, some sheep. Eucalypts, cypresses and wattles, the grass then becoming sparse and greyish, low-lying brown houses, overcast sky… The first thing that captivated him was the realisation of how different the vegetation was. The country properties were well-maintained, and trees with enormous trunks stood tall and proud. Like the US, Russia or Argentina. Places where Nature is serious business and you savour it in silence and with a certain reverence and humility, as if you were contemplating the open ocean.

They drove up Mt Macedon. There were dense forests with various species of eucalypts, acacias, maples… How green, how rich, thought the writer, emulating Rem Koolhas, the Dutch architect during his trip around Spain when he discovered that, unlike the Dutch, Spaniards have so much stone. There were English-style mansions from the Gold Rush era behind stone or boxwood walls which harboured, exotic gardens. One woman died when she went back into her house to rescue her cat; others died not trying to save anybody.

On that outing, C. Although he barely had time to see much of that immense country, he really enjoyed its Nature and how accessible it was. Australians experienced it, even when they lived in cities. At the end of his journey he visited various national parks in Tasmania, an island he had always wanted to visit, perhaps because of the sonority of its name — or its distance from Spain, or the ferocious devil Taz, the cartoon character — and the promise of expansive landscapes.

In his travel notes he jotted down each species of tree or animal he was able to identify. He was obsessed with being able to describe landscapes in an era when very few other writers could be bothered, maybe because, erroneously, it is considered really boring and a waste of time.

As far as C. Tasmania was the place he liked to talk about most often and, though it might seem somewhat infantile, he was proud to have been there. As if there were a medal on his chest. Walking through the forests was a luxury he had been able to give himself, something he thought he would never forget. That Australian island was added to his list of magical trips, which included Madagascar, Crete and the coast of Turkey.

Up to this point you have a summary of the basic themes C. What does interest us are Aboriginals. Some people did ask C. Nor had he read up on the subject before his trip. There was something disquieting about those rocks that rose like skyscrapers of the past on the point of toppling over. There was a brutal, yet sad, face to many of them. Eyes, mouths, crowns of deposed monarchs.

Burnished gullies, trees that survived by putting down roots in impossible places. Hanging Rock, battered by the wind, was not a pleasant place to inhabit. But there were kangaroos and blue wrens The males were electric blue, while the females were brown and white. Up in the tropical north, there were hollowed-out baobab trees which the colonials had used as temporary lock-ups for Aboriginals.

And that when he was there, Aboriginals represented 2. They continued to live isolated from society, had difficulty integrating, succumbed to alcoholism and violence, and were a bargaining chip used by politicians in their fight for power. And the last three hundred who survived the killings and diseases were confined to Flinders Island, off the north-east coast. In short, C. He found them child-like. Human, fish and animal silhouettes done in a single, simple white stroke.

This man wore only a loin cloth, his dark skin was painted with white designs, and he moved to the sound of a didgeridoo playing on a cassette recorder. Back in Madrid, at a family gathering, C. Nowadays, they were characters who jumped for a few miserable dollars.

Their conversation ended when they were interrupted by the arrival of a cousin, and they probably felt relieved to abandon it and help themselves to more wine. A year went by. The memories of Australia were starting to shred. Many of them lost their colour, clarity and meaning. And C. But C. For instance, he was in Chamonix for a week, and thanks to the fog and snow, he never managed to see Mont Blanc, the main attraction of that alpine visit. And that delighted him.

Australia was starting to be a re-creation that was less and less associated with the actual reality of his experiences. Another year went by. One night, C. It had to do with the loss of someone dear to him. He vaguely recalled his son, hysterical, asking him for help. His grandfather, C. His head was full of dark, confused images.

He fell asleep again, and when he woke up the next morning, all that remained was a feeling of shapeless anxiety. A few days later, the writer fleetingly recalled having woken up, but nothing about the content of the nightmare itself. He preferred to forget his dreams and rarely talked about them.

At that time, he was asked to write a story about his Australian visit and so he spent some time reading and watching doc Anyone can read about that online. What is of interest to us is how all that information influenced C. Tasmania was no longer the Tasmania he had visited. Something was missing from that section.

It told him something beautiful: Aboriginals measured distances by singing as they walked. He played a game with his son where they measured their apartment by singing. He also found out about their belief in the intimate relationship between creation, spirituality, reality and dreaming. Without them, the world would not exist.

That was another piece of the puzzle with which, years later, he invented a story about his relationship with Tasmania. More than 10 years went by. The memories of his trip were to be found on dark, remote shelves in C. Those that were more readily available tended to be feelings of pleasure or disgust, images, smells.

They were no longer verbally organised into a speech. Recovering those talks and details from his memory would require an effort, and that was of no interest to C. He was not interested in being accurate as far as facts were concerned; rather, he wanted to give form to a story that needed to be told. It was in , during a dinner with friends.

He began by saying that years ago, he had travelled to the island of Tasmania. Then, he went on, years later, something disturbing happened to him. Several nights in a row, he had woken up in the middle of the night after dreaming about nothing. He would wake up with a dreadful anxiety which prevented him from going back to sleep. To put it into words, he dreamt about a black hole, about a continent with no content, an empty box. He was certain that he was dreaming about a place, and that this place had existed.

Every night, when he went to bed, he was afraid to fall He took sleeping pills, but they were useless. The blackhole nightmare returned. One morning, out of the blue, he knew the location of his empty dream. He realised that he was dreaming about Tasmania. And there was nothing there, because the people who had recreated it every day with their dreaming and their songs, the Aboriginals, the ancient inhabitants, the creators, were no longer there.

That was why there were no rivers, no forests, no beaches, no fields. In his dream, he saw Tasmania with Aboriginal eyes. It was a map that was blank since their departure. As of that moment, whenever there was talk of Australia, C. His audience usually liked it. It was suggestive, interesting, even poetic. He told it several times over the years that followed until his death, making adjustments, polishing it.

An oral story is always on the move. In his old age, he ended up believing his story unquestioningly. He believed he had never seen an Aboriginal, he believed he had had that nightmare, and he believed he had realised that his dream represented Tasmania. The story about that transparent Tasmanian map ended up being the only memory his Australian trip left etched in him. The only genuine footprint. La Australia que yo he pisado, casi de puntillas, no es aquella.

Ni siquiera pude tocar los muros de la silenciosa isla de piedra de Nueva Nursia, donde Rosendo Salvado quiso empezar a cambiar el mundo para que nada cambiase. Desamparo no, eso nunca. Eso me asombra, me interpela, Rosendo. Irreconciliables como ese dilema tuyo, el de tantos en tu tiempo. Me marcho de Tuy y es como si me marchase de Australia Occidental, esa tierra a la que mis padres estuvieron a punto de emigrar antes de que yo naciera. Pero creo que ahora te entiendo mejor.

Hay que arremangarse, hay que cavar la tierra, y defender lo justo contra tu tiempo y la evidencia. Hay que dar lo mejor de uno mismo siempre, incluso a pesar de uno mismo y su escepticismo. Cada semilla es una posibilidad. Quiero creer que fuiste feliz cuando ya no eras cuerpo y tus restos regresaron en calma a Nueva Nursia.

Distant sounds now, standing in a street in Paris. It never will be; perhaps it never was. I wanted to see something of what no longer exists, something of the man they told me about as I was passing through Canberra — that pragmatic Benedictine idealist with the air of a character from a book by Jack London.

I walked along those Galician streets looking for traces of him and found a lump of stone with some words engraved on it and a sculpture which is perhaps no truer than all his dreams. For heroes only become heroes when they are no more, and I search for the man. I sat down in Tuy to smoke a cigarette and sought some truth in those stone eyes, some image trapped in their stony pupils.

It must have been hard, that voyage from Rome in , crossing oceans that have always frightened me, armed with good will, perhaps with con All this for what? I ask this Spanish-Galician Australian. What might you have felt? Pleasure or abandonment? Not abandonment; never that. Rather, I picture you with your chest constricted by yearning, the coastline around Perth, the endless Indian Ocean and the entire world ahead of you, the desire - almost impossible to contain — of a purebred who wants to press forward, distance himself from the coast and the colonial settlements, head inland in pursuit of that murmur you already intuited, the phonetical music of the Aboriginal people, their 40,year-old paintings, their silhouettes moving under the sun and following compasses unknown to Europeans.

But based on what I know, the only symbol you chose was the guest house, the farm, the school and the monastery in New Norcia with its small community of Benedictines which persists with your dream. Working side by side with reality must have turned you into a realist, and yet you never lost hope.

That astonishes me, Rosendo, speaks to me. I was in Canberra, in Sydney and in Melbourne, at gatherings and interviews. I said many things and I spoke all the time, but I was constantly assaulted by this thought: How do we make things change? And then I get over it. I forget that weight of evidence, and I carry on. I carry on because I only know how to do what I am doing — chasing utopias, inventing paradises and hells, hoping and wishing that none of it is carried off by the wind.

I search for those Australian trees you brought with you in a little bag of seeds you wanted to plant in your homeland in order to remember the land of your life. Both were united in the roots and trunk of a eucalypt. A beautiful metaphor, worthy of a poet: the Australian land growing in Galician soil, the fusion of irreconcilable antipodes. Irreconcilable, just like your dilemma, the dilemma of so many in your time. How to change others without destroying them. Maybe at heart you were only searching for what they could offer you, a meaning to your life, a mission.

You wanted to save them from oblivion, they who have no sense of passing time, the most ancient human beings on Earth. When I was in Melbourne, I went to a classical concert. Now, I think that maybe the other Rosendo, El Mercado, is right. You reached a promised land, while I saw skyscrapers, domesticated parks, trams and cosmopolitan cities, war memorials, exhibitions of modern art where Aboriginal paintings hang on the walls of museums visited by school groups. I heard tell that an Aboriginal woman has been elected to Parliament.

I assume you smiled. The ship of my personal history chose a different port. But I think I understand you better now. You have to roll up your sleeves, dig over the land, and defend what is just, even if it goes against the evidence and your moment in time. You must always give your best, despite yourself and your scepticism. Every seed is a possibility. I want to sit near the Indian Ocean. Because men like you have no beginning or end.

They are now and forever contained within the spirit of the human soul. And then I imagine you nearing the end, aged eighty-six, in that monastery in Rome writing your memoirs right to the last moment in order to somehow continue living in Australia with I see you looking out of the window of your small cell and I recall a sunset in Bendigo.

It was raining, and the rain made me feel very far from home. I want to believe that you were happy when you were no longer a body and your remains were returned on calm seas to New Norcia. Like those trees that sway in Tuy, stolen children too, mestizos who, when the wind blows, sway their crowns as if they wanted to return home, to the other side of the ocean and of History.

No sabe si quienes esto aconsejan lo hacen por experiencia propia o por esa intrepidez que le entra a la gente cuando quien tiene que someterse a la prueba es otro. Pero A. Porque A. Debe de tener prisa por llegar. Pero el vecino vuelve a encender la pantallita y A. Samarcanda, Samarcanda repite A. Porque querer alejarse de una vida sabida y controlada es un impulso suficiente para hacerla despegar, pero resulta demasiado enclenque para sostener el relato de un viaje tan largo.

Y Samarcanda ha sembrado en su interior el germen de esa fuerza. Ya quiere ir a Australia a intentar un cambio de vida radical. Ni manos aferradas a nada ni pies bien asentados en el suelo, sencillamente porque no los siente o los siente como desconectados del circuito habitual. Que Australia se siente en el cuerpo, que se lleva literalmente en la piel, A.

Pero ni en la vida humana ni en la de los relatos las cosas son tan sencillas. Porque no puede con los vinos australianos. Y se bebe el vino precipitadamente, con un descuido que es casi un desprecio. Y es que A. Pero de momento lo que sucede es que llega al hotel con mal sabor de boca. Cuando llega al Museo Italiano para la conferencia de esa tarde, se siente ya en plena forma. Que no se cierran tampoco ante lo nuevo. En cualquier caso, aunque hubiera venido en tetrabrik A.

Y eso es ya mucho cambio. Lo estoy bebiendo a gusto piensa de verdad, sinceramente, desde dentro. De la literatura para no dejar de hacer ni de tener presente. Lo mira, lo huele, se lo lleva a la boca. Muy rico. Y no miente. Ni exagera. Intenso pero delicado en la nariz: aroma complejo a rosa, violetas, fresas dulces, especias anisadas.

Amplio y bien estructurado en la boca; taninos muy maduros, suaves, envolventes. Flying In the city on the Atlantic where A. In any event, A. And it occurs to A. But A. Flying through the sky while completely at the mercy of another — be that a human or electronic pilot — is always an appealing activity, healthy therapy. Because A.

So, even in this sense, Australia is a dream destiny. Samarkand The man sitting beside A. He must be keen to get there. All A. The longer the journey the better. Samarkand, Samarkand, A. How would Munich, Sydney, Paris, Melbourne have sounded, how do they sound — with what mix of vertigo and hope — in the minds of emigrants back then and now? This story needs new energy. An Australian story needs a bigger engine: the powerful turbine of a second incentive; a thrust capable of building a transformative outcome and of carrying A.

And Samarkand has sown the seed of such a force within A. The body Australia belongs to the body, thinks A. Because if the intention was to lose control, A. Hands not gripping anything, feet not firmly planted on the ground, simply because A. And so, here is A. Upon reaching Sydney and starting to count the impressive number of dermatological clinics lining the streets, A. The sun here is no joke, and such a level of seriousness will also please A.

But for now, A. For these young people practise what could be called exhaustive — or as Borges might put it, unanimous — environmentalism which guides even the most basic elements of their daily lives in a palpable, explicit way. And yet these young people are hunters it seems the kangaroos have overstepped their natural limits.

So, from the first part of the trip, A. And A. And that those pertaining to gender are undoubtedly the toughest nuts to crack, and clearly the most toxic. That A. In each book A. Everything appears to be going smoothly, and A. But things are never that simple, either in life or in short stories. Neither existence nor intrigue can dispense with obstacles. And in this instance, the obstacle is wine. For A. What can you expect from bottles with screw tops?

Or from these labels on which there are no details about the vintage, merely the name of the grape — merlot, grenache, shiraz. And drinks the wine hurriedly, with a disregard that is almost a snub. The problem is that A. Without due care, wine will be A. It appears to be a minor obstacle, a superficial impediment easily salvageable. What happens right now, however, is that A. Fused with the Public A. But the city is appealing — with its grandiose yet discreet architecture, like those intelligent people who know how to express themselves without showing off — and A.

An invitation to visit the various exhibition spaces before the talk is accepted. The Museum is essentially about immigration; the display cases contain objects and testimonies belonging to the Italian community. In some instances, the pieces are valuable and personal — a necklace handed over by parents just before departure; a wedding ring Sees the private fused with the public; the public sustained, justified in the deepest part of the intimate.

The private is political. The private is political: A. And also the fact that this is essentially what is explored in the novels A. In order to be reborn, one must die first, as Oscar Wilde already said — and in much more effervescent words. And this will be done with a crescendo of sensations leading to the final climax. Then — before A. Will speak of literature so that it will not cease to be created or to be present.

And finally, with the menu at the dinner: kangaroo fillets in a quince sauce and a wine from the Adelaide region — a pinot noir from the Ashton Hills. Very tasty. Or exaggerating. It is deep red, crimson. The nose is intense, but delicate; a complex aroma of roses, violets, sweet strawberries, anise-flavoured spices.

Full-bodied and well-structured in the mouth; well-matured, smooth, with all-enveloping tannins. A lengthy finish. A genuine wonder. Nadie se toca.

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Y la empresa privada cree formar parte de este proyecto es " cool " genial. Pero Stuart y Vanstone dejan muy claro que en el fondo, estas empresas privadas no son del todo privadas , pues son financiadas con dinero del Estado y deben operar bajo el abrigo de la Nasa. Fuente de la imagen, AFP. Pero para ello hay que resolver un problema: el combustible para viajar. Para ello, la Luna es una excelente parada de abastecimiento. Si bien el acuerdo internacional establece que el espacio es un territorio neutral y nadie puede apropiarse de cuerpos celestes, se puede prestar a interpretaciones.

En segundo lugar, el hecho de que no se pueda reclamar propiedad, no quiere decir que no se pueda ocupar el espacio. El gobierno estadounidense no desconoce el tratado, al contrario, considera una responsabilidad legislar sobre actividades nacionales en el espacio exterior.

A Stuart lo que le preocupa son otras iniciativas tomadas por el gobierno estadounidense para promocionar la actividad espacial. Sigue leyendo porque te lo contamos todo. Aunque se llame azul no quiere decir que esta segunda luna llena que estamos observando sea propiamente azul.

No tiene nada que ver con ello. Es el nombre que se le llama a la segunda luna llena del mes y que se produce cada cierto tiempo. Es un evento que rara vez se da. En el mes de enero tuvimos dos lunas llenas a lo largo del mismo mes al igual que durante marzo. La segunda luna de este mes es la que se considera luna azul.

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Fuente de la imagen, Thinkstock. Estados Unidos no se ha pronunciado como gobierno. Fuente de la imagen, ESA. Fuente de la imagen, Getty Images. Y la empresa privada cree formar parte de este proyecto es " cool " genial. Pero Stuart y Vanstone dejan muy claro que en el fondo, estas empresas privadas no son del todo privadas , pues son financiadas con dinero del Estado y deben operar bajo el abrigo de la Nasa.

Fuente de la imagen, AFP. Pero para ello hay que resolver un problema: el combustible para viajar. Para ello, la Luna es una excelente parada de abastecimiento. Sigue leyendo porque te lo contamos todo. Aunque se llame azul no quiere decir que esta segunda luna llena que estamos observando sea propiamente azul.

No tiene nada que ver con ello. Es el nombre que se le llama a la segunda luna llena del mes y que se produce cada cierto tiempo. Es un evento que rara vez se da. En el mes de enero tuvimos dos lunas llenas a lo largo del mismo mes al igual que durante marzo. La segunda luna de este mes es la que se considera luna azul.