Her skin is white cloth,
and she's all sewn apart
and she has many colored pins
sticking out of her heart.

She has many different zombies
who are deeply in her trance.
She even has a zombie
who was originally from France.

But she knows she has a curse on her,
a curse she cannot win.
For if someone gets
too close to her,

the pins stick farther in.

It is a fact: people sometimes have fantasies about their neighbours. Betty*--the black beauty on the left--happens to live opposite my building here in London. I confess, I have dirty and cruel thoughts about what to do to her.

*I'm sure Ram Jam were thinking of her when they composed their song (bam-A-LAMB...oOo-black Betty). She was a little lamb then though.

Dan Hiller has another name for it. He just call it Lovers. Another caption, anyone?

Love might be blind, queridos, but not dull. Or at least that is what people who hunt for love in The London Review of Books might think. In the times of massive online dating sites, there are others who decide to advertise their charms in a more, say, target oriented way.  Somehow hidden in the last pages of some literary and scholarly journals, one can find interesting perlitas del flirting. They read as follows:

"Frau Emmy Colchester (38) seeks non-talking cure for evening of nachträglichkeit..." or "Well paid scientist (m.43) I know I'm always right because I know how to prove it step by step. Those who beg to differ (and believe me, you're wrong) may do so at box n.22/16"

It is clear that intellectual-wannabes, as anybody else, have their corazoncito. But in the end, and judging by the content of the adds, I'm affraid Marx was not very far from the truth when he claimed that "Philosophy stands in the same relation to the study of the actual world as masturbation to sexual love"*

*(The German Ideology, International Publishers, ed. Chris Arthur, p. 103)

During the times of modernism, a mysterious character published anonymously written snapshots of news whose length was no more than three lines.  In his section on the French diary Le Matin one could read such things as:

“There is no longer a God even for drunkards. Kersilie, of St.-Germain, who had mistaken the window for the door, is dead.” 

"A certain madwoman arrested downtown falsely claimed to be nurse Elise Bachmann. The latter is perfectly sane."

The life of Felix Fénéon-- who then turned out to be the discoverer and publisher of figures such as Apollinaire, Seurat and Joyce--would hardly fit in three lines; but the book that comprises most of his short writings  meticulously compiled  by his mistress, has no more and no less than 208 pages.

I wonder whether any microblog would be worthy of a book in the near future. For the time being however, Fénéon already has his own Twitter.

They say the Department was founded 182 years ago; that here is where MIND--the first English journal of Philosophy--started.  Sir A.J.Ayer himself was responsible for rebuilding the department after the IIWW. Richard Wollheim, Bernard Williams and a bunch of other Big Philosophical Torpedos have worked here... 19 Gower Street.

 And yet, instead of recalling all these remarkable facts, every time I pass by this door (one has to use the back door to get into the department), I can't help thinking about the far less reputable Behind the Green Door while humming that mítica canción Qué Habrá tras esa puerta veeer-dé.

Ilustración de Elena Odriozola. Desde que vi su exposición durante la Summer School este verano, tengo las imágenes grabadas.

The story of my life has been so tied to aviation that arguably, my family (as we know it) would not have been possible without the existence of airlines. Things being this way, I couldn't feel anything but moved when I saw this visual story at Wired. Yes, they are advertisment photos, but I can tell you that there are very similar ones in my family's archive. 

Well, but apart from my family there's other interesting story and, of course, a very nice and classic song that I know Manti&LaChach would enjoy.

*for those of you malpensados: no, my mother was not an "azafata" and my father wasn't a pilot.

“Device of levitation of an item over an optimized base by means of permanent magnets. The equilibrium is stable along one or two axes by means of these permanent magnets, and along the one or two others by means of a combination of electromagnets of near zero consumption at equilibrium.”

 via alberto in ccultura

Or cooking according to Rodrigo. Welcome to Pormisfogones, Na cozinha é preciso um pouco de mala leche e muito, muito amor. Good luck gachupíndelnorte.