As if it weren’t enough that I basically write papers for a living, I’m getting a strong urge to start using backpacks again.

In high school, I used to be all about the JanSport until I conceded that I couldn’t pull off “angsty skater”; and, to my disappointment, the only reason the boys that looked cute with the two-pocket JanSport bags on were the ones that never carried any books. Anyway, I moved on to Kipling because I liked the monkey key chain thing. My last backpack was an orange canvas one that I found at a wholesale store in China. I loved it to death (i.e., I used it until the shoulder strap finally broke).

I did a few searches online and found some I liked. They’re all pretty different so I guess I can’t say I have a well-defined approach to all of this.

So now, I am, once again, on the prowl — suggestions welcome.

Leather Backpack, TenOverSix, $557.00

I love this one so much but there are two glaring problems with it: 1) the price, and 2) the fact that it seems like the bag itself would weigh more than the contents I put in it. But it’s so beautiful — so so beautiful.

Kimchi Blue Canvas Backpack, Urban Outfitters, $68

Basically a poor — ok, very poor — man’s version of the one above. Tbh, I think I would be very happy with this bag, as long as I could adjust it higher — I have enough back problems as it is.

Deux Lux Colorblock Backpack, Urban Outfitters, $68

It’s not real leather, but that just means I can use and abuse — just what a backpack is meant for — in fact, you could say I’d be helping it live fulfill backpack destiny.

Pearl Lightning Drew Backpack, LeSportSac, $128

A relatively recent attempt at a particular unnamed diet  brought me very close to what I imagine astronauts eat in space. This, while I’m sure is much more fanciful and far less useful than what they use in space, will substitute for my failure to empathize on a gastronomical level.

'Union Square' backpack, Kate Spade, $225

I like the red. I like the structure. I like the name.

Nap Sack Backpack, LeSportsac, $108

I love this and the one below so much for their color and design. I worry, though, that they risk becoming dingy the second I walk out onto the street. Then again, that’s what washing machines are for right?

Nap Sack Backpack, LeSportsac, $108

Nylon Cordura School Bag, American Apparel, $42

The cheapest of the bunch but no less attractive to me. Quite the contrary, affordability always earns bonus points. American Apparel has this style in a bunch of other colors (even metallic!).

So, backpacks? Eh? Eh? Who’s with me! …..

One of the Just So stories (The Crab that Played with the Sea) has a poem at the end comprised of shipping line names. In fact, here it is:

CHINA-GOING P & O’s
Pass Pau Amma’s playground close,
And his Pusat Tasek lies
Near the track of most B.I.’s.
U.Y.K. and N.D.L.
Know Pau Amma’s home as well
As the fisher of the Sea knows
‘Bens,’ M.M.’s, and Rubattinos.
But (and this is rather queer)
A.T.L.’s can not come here;
O. and O. and D.O.A.
Must go round another way.
Orient, Anchor, Bibby, Hall,
Never go that way at all.
U.C.S. would have a fit
If it found itself on it.
And if ‘Beavers’ took their cargoes
To Penang instead of Lagos,
Or a fat Shaw-Savill bore
Passengers to Singapore,
Or a White Star were to try a
Little trip to Sourabaya,
Or a B.S.A. went on
Past Natal to Cheribon,
Then great Mr. Lloyds would come
With a wire and drag them home!
You’ll know what my riddle means
When you’ve eaten mangosteens.

When I was small the only thing I got out of that was a passionate desire to eat mangosteens. Now it reminds me to talk while I can to old people because they know things; things that will vanish without trace when they die. I was thinking about this walking through Jericho the other day – the weird geo-vibe of the place you grew up won’t affect anybody else and will totally vanish when you do.

Anyway, I have now eaten mangosteens. Ian brought some in about a year ago to the office*. They were amazing. They are the size of a small apple, balls crafted in shiny dark red paper, and inside they are segmented like tangerines, but with no fibre. Textured like a good pear, flavoured like a lychee. Ambrosia. Ian says we can get them in Singapore, but because of the dye in the skin they’re banned from most hotels.

*this was also the occasion when we sent him off to the upstairs kitchen to eat his horrible smelly durian in isolation and someone from another office called the gas board. Durian is amazing. You can also get that in Singapore, but I don’t think I will. Cheesy mango with a sock-scented flavour of corruption all its own. The only person I’ve ever met who liked it as much as Ian was Pippa the dalmatian, who licked the empty container for about 10 solid minutes, till we took it away from her. This feeds my conviction that Ian, like all the best people, is secretly a dog.

Do you remember Kipling bags? Those rucksacks that the geeky girls at school had with a little furry monkey keyring hanging off it, that were always red? Well it seems that those geeky days are now gone and Kipling has grown up and had a bit of a makeover at the hands of Isabelle Cheron. Cheron arrived at Kipling in 2006 and there is no doubt that she knows what she is doing, having worked at Celine, Chanel and Cerruti and the results are showing. Kipling is becoming more fashion forward and there is an obvious departure from the children’s rucksacks that it was once famous for. If Kipling isn’t on your radar, it should be.

As Christmas is approaching, Kipling have put together a holiday collection with a selection of their best bags for the festive season, so whether you need something for your Christmas party, New Year’s Eve or even a pressie for your girlfriend, there is no need to look any further.

YOU could be the owner of a fab Kipling clutch (above) from the holiday collection just in time for Christmas. Simply leave a comment on this post by 15th December and this sparkly clutch could be yours. Don’t forget to leave a contact e-mail address so I can get in touch if you win. The competition is open to UK residents only (sorry to my overseas readers) and the winner will be notified by 16th December. Good luck!

Questions and Answers

I have a question that has been puzzling me for some time. What is the opposite of the word “fade”; as in “light fades at dusk”? What does light do in the morning?

I suppose that’s why Kipling wrote instead that “dawn comes up like thunder” and Coleridge imagined dawn’s “golden exhalations.” Wordsworth’s dawn was “cheerful” and Homer’s, “rosy-fingered.”

On an unrelated note, I think fade is a pretty interesting word since when light is fading, things becomes darker, but when colour fades from something, it becomes lighter.

Fade can also mean to wither, if you’re a flower; to become quieter, if you’re sound; to grow smaller and weaken, if you’re mortal; and to vanish, if you’re the invisible man.

If you fade in a game of cards, you’re accepting a bet. And if your brake shoes fade, you’re in trouble.

Now, if you happen to be from Cornwall and little old-fashioned, then fade can also mean “to dance from town to country.” And if you want to be especially old-fashioned you should know that another, obsolete meaning of fade is “to suit or arrange,” though this fell out of favour in the late 15th century.

Thanks for the question, Cheryl.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with wornout tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings – nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man my son!

-Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master,
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings – nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!

Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

Non, je ne tente pas de faire un revival 90 en resortant mon sac à dos Kipling en matière  “imperméable” (plus connu sous le nom de “matière Kipling”). La collection Printemps/Été 2010 de la marque s’annonce un peu plus rock que les précédentes (ceci dit, c’est pas difficile!): matière craquelée, nubuck clouté…

Possibilité d’acheter en ligne pour celles qui sont déjà accros!

I doubt i have much chance to forget really because it gets rammed down my throat every year for about 3 months.

There are varying degrees of debate about what Kipling actually meant when he produced this, oh so famous, line in the poem, as there are with most poems from this era because the majority of the poets were fucked on acid and didn’t actually know themselves. It is commonly suspected that it was in reference to the ‘Ultimate sacrifice’ of those who did not return but were left in the hands of the enemy, and has since just become a catchphrase for more or less anything to do with war ‘victims’ dead or maimed in the line of duty.

Anyhoo, one thing that is certain, it is designed to make us feel proud. Proud to be British. Proud to still be defending our great nation against the tyrants. Dare i say it – proud to not be one of them.

Do not mistake me for one of the ‘Jesus wouldn’t join the military’ tree huggers but i can’t be arsed with all the other side of the coin either that tells me i should mourn for dead folk i didn’t know. Am i just meant to remember the dead british folk? Or can i also use the silence to think about the other dead folk that killed the british dead folk and subsequently got deaded themself afterwards by our british heroes?
Heroes! Remember our dead heroes? If they were that fucking heroic they wouldn’t be dead would they?

Lack of equipment? Rambo had a lot less equipment and he killed fucking thousands on his own.

I wouldn’t go as far as saying they can fuck right off but the people who now jump on the bandwagon and want me to join their Facebook clan to show i care – they can definitely fuck right off.

Si guardas en tu puesto la cabeza tranquila
cuando todo a tu lado es cabeza perdida;
si en ti mismo tienes una fe que te niegan
y nunca desprecias las dudas que ellos tengan;
si esperas en tu puesto, sin fatiga en la espera;
si, engañado, no engañas;
si no buscas más odio que el odio que te tengan…
Si eres bueno y no finges ser mejor de lo que eres;
si al hablar no exageras lo que sabes y quieres;
si sueñas, y los sueños no te hacen su esclavo;
si piensas y rechazas lo que piensas en vano;
si tropiezas con el triunfo, si a la cumbre llega tu derrota
y a estos dos impostores los tratas de igual forma;
si logras que se sepa la verdad que has hablado,
a pesar del sofisma del orbe encanallado;
si vuelves al comienzo del trabajo perdido,
aunque esta obra dure toda tu vida;
si arriesgas al momento y lleno de alegría
tus ganancias de siempre a la suerte de un día,
y pierdes y te lanzas de nuevo a la pelea,
sin decir nada a nadie de lo que es y lo que era;
si logras que nervios y corazón te asistan,
aun después de su fuga de tu cuerpo en fatiga,
y se agarren contigo cuando no quede nada,
porque tú lo deseas y lo quieres y mandas;
si hablas con el pueblo y guardas tu virtud;
si marchas junto a reyes a tu paso y tu luz;
si nadie que te hiera llega a hacerte una herida;
si todos te reclaman, y ninguno te precisa;
si llenas un minuto envidiable y certero
de sesenta segundos que te lleven al cielo…
toda esta tierra será dominio tuyo
y aún mucho más,
serás hombre, hijo mío.

Si, de Rudyard Kipling

Actualizado: Otra traducción del mismo poema, que puede aclarar mejor algunos aspectos. También de Wikisource.

“Si puedes mantener la cabeza cuando los otros Han perdido la suya y están culpándote, Si puedes confiar en ti cuando los demás dudan, Pero a la vez, eres indulgente con sus dudas; Si puedes esperar y no te cansas por esperar, O, siendo mentido, no te entregas al odio, Y, aun así, no presumes demasiado ni hablas demasiado sabiamente.

Si puedes soñar y no permites que tus sueños te gobiernen; Si puedes pensar y no haces de tus pensamientos tus aspiraciones; Si puedes enfrentarte al Triunfo y al Desastre Y tratas a esos dos impostores como si fuesen lo mismo, Si puedes soportar que la verdad que has dicho Sea retorcida por bellacos para ser convertida en una trampa para necios, O, al contemplar como se rompen las cosas por las que diste la vida, Te inclinas a rehacerlas con herramientas gastadas.

Si puedes hacer un montón con todas tus ganancias Y arriesgarlas en una jugada a los dados, Y perderlas, y empezar otra vez desde el principio Y no rechistar nunca acerca de tus pérdidas, Si puedes forzar tu corazón, tu nervio y tu fuerza Para que te sirvan aun después de que se hayan ido Y te sostienes cuando ya no queda nada en ti Excepto la Voluntad que te hace decir: “Resiste”

Si puedes hablar a las masas y conservar tu virtud O caminar entre reyes sin perder el contacto con la gente, Si ni los enemigos ni tus amigos pueden dañarte, Si todos los hombres cuentan contigo, pero ninguno de ellos demasiado; Si puedes llenar el inexorable minuto Con el equivalente a sesenta segundos de distancia recorrida, Tuya es la Tierra y todo lo que hay en ella, Y, lo que es mas, ¡serás un Hombre, hijo mío!”

School has a tannoy system that can be heard across the road and leaks into every corner of the orphanage campus. Every morning there is a song sung acapella by a different pupil, who serenades  us (usually out of tune) with songs from “camp rock” or any of the “high school musicals”, in fact someone is singing now as i type and then there is a recitation of the lords prayer…Much earlier in the day and even louder comes a different tannoy from a nearby Hindu temple again this can be heard all over the campus. Chanting/prayers/music usually start at around 4.30am and go on for around an hour.

school windows: KORAN BIBLE GITA KIPLING ELLIOT KEATS DICKENS DANTE FROST NEHRU TAGORE GANDHI

school mornings, of course the one day i decide to film is the one day they decide not to sing, but i will film again, and there will be a song…

Today, I simply share my favorite poem: If by Rudyard Kipling. It has some sentimental value for me, because the poem was used during my fraternity initiation in college. However, it has stayed with me and many of the lines have become important to my understanding of character development and leadership. It is a well-known poem, but I post it here in case you missed it.

Kipling suggests this is advice for a man, but surely it is equally good advice for a woman.

If by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings – nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man my son!

Incontro beautiful JJ durante la passeggiata. Convenevoli di rito e poi sguardo al mio compagno di percorso e l’ilare osservazione: “con te è più calmo però, si vede che hai una certa autorità ”. Si vede vero? Eh sì, un piglio autoritario innato il mio.

Effettivamente Lui, il mio compagno di percorso, è in uno stato di estatica placidia ma sicuramente sta meditando marranate. Perchè Lui è così: assolutamente imprevedibile. Due profondi occhi a mandorla che ti sciolgono il cuore e una forza da leone che ti catapulta al suolo mentre ti stai giustappunto chiedendo cosa sia successo…

Lui è un mio nipote anche se, geneticamente parlando, appartiene ad una razza diversa dalla mia. Cioè, Lui cammina a quattro zampe mentre io no. Lui ha una peluria che però,a pensarci bene, anche io ho, sebbene diversamente distribuita. Tuttavia la sua peluria è di quel bel colore della terra appena arata e un pò bagnata ed è necessaria alla sua sopravvivenza. La mia invece è color carbone, antiestetica e fastidiosa e sopravviverei decisamente meglio senza.

Per distinguere Lui da eventuali altri nipoti (che pure vanno a quattro zampe ma  solo in fase temporanea) e un pò per evitare la camicia di forza quando ne parlo in pubblico, mi riferisco a Lui con l’appellativo affettivo (ed effettivo) di “Piluso”.

Piluso vive nella ferma convinzione di essere un grande proprietario terriero: ettari ed ettari di terreno circostante le campagne in cui vive con tutto quello che ci cresce sopra sono praticamente suoi. “Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it {…}”scrisse il grande Kipling, con evidente riferimento agli antenati di Piluso.

E così, tanto per essere espliciti, ad ogni uscita l’amato Piluso delinea i confini delle “sue” proprietà versando un numero infinito di liquidi che manco fosse Bossi che demarca la “sua” Padania.

Tecnicamente parlando, Piluso è un misto di pastore maremmano e rhodesian ridgeback. Da un punto di vista letterario è un perfetto incrocio tra Don Rodrigo e Don Chisciotte. Quando usciamo insieme il mio ruolo spazia dunque dalla “Brava” manzoniana al Sancho “Panzella” perchè, visti i pochi chili che mi compongono, come Panza sarei veramente poco credibile.

Insieme, Piluso ed io viviamo avventure fantastiche (che a me che già ho una fervida immaginazione solo mi mancava un nipote quadrupede color caramello con la fantasia di Cervantes e l’arroganza di Don Rodrigo…)

Tutto l’inanimato che incontriamo sul nostro cammino è un ostacolo da sormontare e tutto l’animato un nemico da distruggere.

Minacciose sono le foglie che si posano al suolo: da dove provengono? Cosa sono? Che intenzioni hanno?;

sospette le “muraglie”di legna tagliata di fresco: cosa nasconderanno?sono veramente  immobili o è un’ignobile finzione?appostiamoci, Panzella e verifichiamo;

decisamente incauti gli ossessi del jogging che hanno l’ardire di correre nelle “sue” terre: Amici o nemici? Sniffatina di controllo, please;

assolutamente fuori di senno coloro i quali guidano a tutta velocità quegli strani e rumorosi mezzi a quattro ruote: e il permesso di entrare chi ve l’ha dato?All’attacco, mia Brava, inseguiamoli! Mostriamogli il canino acuminato a questi imbecilli;

fuori discussione un contatto sociale con altri quadrupedi di sesso maschile: ohibò, e questo chi sarebbe? Come osa pestare codeste terre? Ma non l’ha avvertito nessuno a quest’ impunito? Insomma ma.. vi manca il dono dell’olfatto? No perchè la demarcazione è chiara.. La rinnovo quotidianamente, due volte al dì e queste terre sono MIE! Capito? M-I-E! ho detto e.. latrato e …abbaiato e… ululato, tirando con tutta la forza   l’odiato guinzaglio e una traballante Sancho Panzella.

Scongiurati i pericoli, stanchi ma felici (come si dice in tutti i racconti) Piluso ed io ci fermiamo ad ammirare i campi sconfinati, scrutando l’orizzonte e odorando l’aria che sa di terra; Lui meditando sull’ebbrezza di correre libero in quei campi, io pensando pensieri inutili.

Un scoop: désormais, le Prez lit!

La copertina di uno dei più famosi libri dello scrittore inglese Joseph Rudyard Kipling (Mumbai, 30 dicembre 1865 – Londra, 18 gennaio 1936)

Ogni tanto la TV per i bambini torna a illuminarsi di qualche perla buona. O almeno, le premesse sono queste. Leggo dai quotidiani (ad esempio sulla Stampa, cliccare qui) che la RAI trasmetterà (alle 7 del mattino, orario migliore per un ascolto attento e concentrato, vero?) una nuova serie cartoni basata sulla storia di KIM, il personaggio indiano dell’omonimo libro di Kipling.

Il grande Kipling, quello del Libro della Giungla. Si spera tuttavia che i risultati siano migliori di quelli ottenuti dalla Disney per Mowgli e compagni del Branco di Seonee (alludo a Kaa trasformato in serpente cattivo che ipnotizza, le Bandar con un capo, tal re Luigi, quando tutti sanno che le Bandar non hanno legge e non hanno sovrano! e via dicendo, la serie sarebbe quasi infinita). 

Chi avesse già avuto modo di visionare il cartone su Rai2, farà cosa gradita al sottoscritto se ci comunicherà il suo parere in merito. Sono assai curioso (e forse non sono il solo. Kim, di certo, lo era molto).  

Andrea

Egy igazi különlegesség jelenik meg a GFK könyvek sorozatában. Kipling tudományos-fantasztikus és fantasztikus novellákat tartalmazó kötetét veheti kezébe az olvasó.
“A dzsungel könyve világhírű szerzője, az 1907. év irodalmi Nobel-díjasa kitüntetett helyet foglal el az irodalomtörténet panteonjában. Azt azonban csak kevesen tudják róla, hogy számos fantasztikus, sőt tudományos-fantasztikus történetet is írt. Kötetünk ezek legjavát nyújtja át csokorba kötve. Találkozhatunk bennük tengeri szörnyekkel, kísértetekkel, öntudatra ébredt gépezetekkel, de olvashatunk a múlttal létesíthető rádiókapcsolatról, az első mikroszkópról és a bolygómozgások emberi testre gyakorolt hatásairól. A kötet legnagyobb részét pedig két, egymáshoz kapcsolódó kisregény teszi ki, amelyek elképzelt futurisztikus világában a légi közlekedés a mindennapok részévé vált, és a forgalmi irányítóközpontból a totalitárius hatalom elnyomó szervezete lett.
Orwelli és wellsi látomások váltakoznak könnyedebb hangvételű írásokkal ebben a különleges gyűjteményben, melynek darabjai egytől egyig most olvashatók először magyar fordításban, új megvilágításba helyezve egy irodalmi nagyság munkásságát.”
A kötet már előrendelhető a galaktikabolt.hu-n.

Kipling Yuzu Large Duffle Review

Feature

• Removable shoulder strap
• Double hand held handles
• Zip pocket on the front of the bag
• Fluffy monkey keyring
• Double zips and two interior compartments

Overview
With 2 big zipped compartments, the Yuzu combines the benefits of a lightweight bag with the assets of a suitcase.

Nov 06, 2009 10:03:04

A colleague asked me the other day.  ”How do you stay sane in the midst of insanity?”  It seems our lives are filled with insanity and if we are not careful it is easy to get caught up in it!  A quick google search of the “phrase sane in the midst of insanity” revealed that there are a number of people searching for some kind of relief from the insanity in their lives.  I read posts from parent support groups to alcoholism support groups to the regular office worker trying to get by in his 9-5 job.

According to dictionary.com insanity means:  ”the condition of being insane; a derangement of the mind.”  Now, I think this definition could encompass many people suffering from many conditions.  So what is your “trigger point?”  What causes you to become insane or “crazy?”  I often to think of Homer Simpson when I think about someone going “crazy”

But then again there are lots of ways one can “go crazy” and more often than not we do not act like Homer and Simpson.

But when we feel like we are going “crazy” or start to become “insane” with trying to keep up with all the “stuff” in our lives we need help —  Then I begin to ask myself, where does my help come from?  Sure I have lots of support in my life.  I have my friends, my family and the community of the church that is there when I need them.  But for me it is more than that, my help also comes from the Holy Spirit which gives me power and courage to meet my daily challenges.

The Holy Spirit is there for you too, to help you face the challenges within your struggling marriage right now. …To face the challenges with your kids who may be driving you insane right now. … To face the challenges with your mother’s aging, your father’s aging……with their death. …To face the challenges with your aging and with your death. …

We watch as innocent lives are being taken around the world in war.   I weep at the injustice that so many people in our wold experience.  I see the strength of men and women who have hardships in their lives and yet they still move on and they not only survive but they thrive.  The only explanation that  I have is that when the Spirit is inside of you and the people around you, there is power, spiritual power and spiritual gentleness.

That spirit comes to us in our baptism.  Jesus was baptized not to get rid of his sins, but in order to carry our sins on the cross.  I don’t have to carry my past sins with me, my failures, my imperfections,  or my guilt. All the sins that I have done wrong and all the things that I haven’t done right are placed on his back, on his cross. Jesus is the one who carries the weight of sin. His baptism tells us he carries our sins the sins of the world.

I once read a story about a preacher who felt he was a gifted orator and had memorized Kipling’s poem, ‘If” for a high school thespian contest. The pastor recited the poem with great gusto.  He still remembered the poem and wanted to share it with his congregation.

“If you men can keep your heads when all about you, are losing theirs and blaming it on you.

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, and make allowances for their doubting too.

If you men can wait and not be tired of waiting. …Or being lied about, not deal in lies….

Or being hated and not give way to hating.  Yet don’t look too good nor talk too wise. …

If you men can dream and not make dreams your master….If you can think but not make thoughts your aim. …

If you can meet with triumph and disaster, and meet those two imposters just the same. …

If you men can fulfill the unforgiving minute, with sixty seconds left of distant run.

Yours is the earth and everything in it. And what is more, you will be a man, my son.”

As the pastor recited this poem, the “thespian” in him choked with emotion. He was on the edge of tears and filled with deep feelings. There was a long silent pause. During that pause and silence, a voice from the back of the room piped up, “What if you can’t?”

We can ask ourselves that —  no matter what is said or done, “What if you can’t?” What if you can’t master your dreams? What if you can’t meet triumph and disaster just the same? What if you lose your head when everybody else around you is keeping theirs? What if you can’t trust yourself? What if you can’t wait? What if you are tired of waiting? What if you are a lousy parent? What if you are a failure in marriage? What then?  …

Then you hear the words that you have been baptized, and that all of your burdens and imperfections and disappointments have been loaded onto the back of Christ, that everything is put on the shoulders of the one who carries the cross on our behalf.

In your baptism, you hear the words that Jesus Christ carries the sins of the whole world.  It is Jesus Christ who helps us stay sane in the midst of insanity.   Because I know if I did not have Jesus in my life, things would be harder, life would be more difficult and I very well might not make it from day to day.

So how do I stay sane in the midst of insanity?  I rely on the one who carried my sins to the cross – Jesus Christ.

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so i saw this online recently, and i decided that i should do a similar thing.

10 books that changed my life and will forever stay in my mind.

of mice and men by john Steinbeck

this book is more than just a story. to me it was the way i discovered way more about myself and the way i deal with people than i felt comfortable knowing. the story is so perfectly and fully american. the feeling of honor and comfort clashing at every turn, and most of all the need to destroy the most beautiful parts of life. i cant read this book without a tear to this day.
rage by richard bachman (stephen king)

i really got into this book when i was about 12. i have re-read it countless times since and it always evokes a very strong and very personal reaction. there is something about the writing. it feels like a sloppy book by a teenage boy. it has all the fury, all the agony, and well… all the rage that it should. i’m sad that it is out of print, it is without a doubt my favorite book by him.

the man who would be king by rudyard kipling

magic lives in between the words of every rudyard kipling story. i can remember sitting in my grandfather’s house when i was only 10 and watching the movie version of this story. i can remember not understanding a thing. and i remember the way he watched the film. he was one of the smartest men ever to walk this earth, and when he watched this movie he didnt make a sound. he just sat there, in awe. i knew that meant it was good. so i remember watching it with him. in perfect silence. this is another story i have read and re-read, and every time i do i like it more. and i identify with it more. this story is magic.

the great gatsby by f. scott fitzgerald

i have beaten myself up countless times about how closely this book follows parts of my life. i know everyone who wants to sound deep says something like ‘i am gatsby’… but damn. i am. or at least, i was. this is without a doubt one of the best and most important books ever written.

the naked and the dead by norman mailer

norman mailer is the man’s writer. his stories are grizzled and masculine in ways that structured words cant describe. i have never met a real man who didnt like his work. but interestingly enough i have met countless women who hate it. i like to describe him as the serious three stooges. only guys get it. when i first read this book i couldnt believe it. his words are written in cold ink. and i understand every one of them.

old man and the sea by ernest Hemingway

this book is a ‘how to’ of how to be a man. id like to say that i have taken it to heart…
death of a salesman by Arthur miller

this book is way to personal to go into here. i just hope that im not as similar to Willy as i feel sometimes.
dune by frank herbert

the scifi novel at its greatest. this book has everything that a ‘normal respectable’ genre book has and more. the almost biblical tones and the messianic imagery alone makes this book a classic. and as if that wasnt enough, Gurney Halleck is the single greatest man in world literature. take that Beowulf!

the minister’s black veil by nate Hawthorne

this is another book that gave me something to point to. it was something i could reference to explain another little bit of myself.

our town by thornton wilder

this book/play has influenced my own storytelling more than anything else i can think of. the way it tells a somber tale but does it with just enough whimsy is the archetypal story in my mind. i cant imagine my own writing with out this book.

i only picked one book from each author. if i hadnt the list may have well ended up being all Steinbeck and Hemingway, with gatsby nailed in there as well…

Tenía ganas de hacer listas, así que hagamos una media tontuela: mis diez cuentos favoritos (uno por autor y estos en orden alfabético.

“El misterio” – Andréiev, Leonid

“Enoch Soames” – Beerbohm, Max

“La biblioteca de Babel” – Borges, Jorge Luis

“La tercera expedición” – Bradbury, Ray

“Otra vuelta de tuerca” – James, Henry

“Los venenos” – Cortázar, Julio

“La fe de nuestros padres” – Dick, Philip K.

“Tantalia” – Fernández, Macedonio

“La construcción” – Kafka, Franz

“ ‘El cuento más hermoso del mundo’ ” – Kipling, Rudyard

Qué decir… no mucho. Tal vez, de Kafka, hay decenas de cuentos de él que me encantan y que, tal vez, sean más populares (“Ante la ley”, “La construcción de la muralla china”, “Un artista del hambre”), pero elijo La construcción porque me parece que tiene esa sensación de paranoia, de claustrofobia que me parece tan suya y que no encuentro en ningún otro lado… Aparte, al igual que “El castillo”, es un cuento de lo que podríamos llamar “literatura ambiental” o “atmosférica” (en el sentido de que el énfasis está en crear una atmósfera, un ambiente, antes que en la narración, y el cual, a diferencia del terror gótico –que también se especializa en eso- no se apoya en un engorroso lenguaje barroco –el vocabulario de Kafka siempre es sencillo y conciso-, sino en la tortura y la paranoia psicológica), y que a mí particularmente me encanta.

De Borges, también, podría elegir “Funes el memorioso”, o “Tlon, Uqbar, Tertius” o “El sur”, pero “La biblioteca…” tiene ese noséqué de estupor metafísico, de inquietud, de terror ante el infinito y la soledad.

El título de “El cuento más hermoso del mundo” está lejos de ser una hipérbole pretenciosa. Verdaderamente podría estar, cuando un hipotético tribunal futuro juzgue la mera literatura de estas épocas, en la selección de lo más hermoso. Todo en ello es perfecto: la descripción del protagonista, la inquietud de índole fantástica, la aparición del amor.

“Los venenos” de Cortázar tal vez sorprenda a alguno, que esperaba “Casa tomada”. Yo, como pedófilo y como nostálgico sin remedio de la infancia, me quedo con “Los venenos”, un cuento, un relato, que supera, a mis ojos, cualquier belleza: su descripción de la infancia en formato “súper 8”, cargada de melancolía, mirando a través del prisma de la nostalgia al primer amor, ante esa belleza suprema de una niña que “estaba con su vestido de lunares anaranjados, que era el que más me gustaba”, verdaderamente me llenan, me sigue llenando de lágrimas los ojos. Este cuento es la última oda a la niñez, “Music has the right to children” de Boards of Canada hecho literatura, “Cuentos asombrosos” hecho cuento de verdad. Es un relato tan chiquito y perfecto y hermoso y nostálgico y maravilloso y colorido y amoroso que difícilmente tenga parangón. Me parece, para mí gusto absolutamente melancólico hacia la infancia, infinitamente mejor a “Casa tomada”.

Muchos dirán “pero che, ¡’Otra vuelta de tuerca’ no es un cuento!” Pues allá ellos. “Otra vuelta de tuerca” es un cuento largo, pero cuento al fin. ¿Qué me gusta de él? Además de inscribirse en la misma línea de ciertos relatos kafkianos de “literatura ambiental”, una de las cosas que más me gustan de él, y ciertamente no la menor, es Flora. Flora es, en palabras de James, “beatífica visión de belleza angelical”. Flora es la niñita más hermosa de toda la literatura (CAGATE LOLITA). Aparte, ese nombre, Flora, qué nombre PRECIOSO, un nombre tan hermoso y bello como su hermosísima portadora. Así que “Otra vuelta de tuerca” aparte de ser el mejor relato de fantasmas jamás hecho sirve como bonita excusa para estar cerca de una de las más hermosas niñitas de toda la literatura.

Tenía ganas de hacer listas, así que hagamos una media tontuela: mis diez cuentos favoritos (uno por autor y estos en orden alfabético.

“El misterio” – Andréiev, Leonid

“Enoch Soames” – Beerbohm, Max

“La biblioteca de Babel” – Borges, Jorge Luis

“La tercera expedición” – Bradbury, Ray

“Otra vuelta de tuerca” – James, Henry

“Los venenos” – Cortázar, Julio

“La fe de nuestros padres” – Dick, Philip K.

“Tantalia” – Fernández, Macedonio

“La construcción” – Kafka, Franz

“ ‘El cuento más hermoso del mundo’ ” – Kipling, Rudyard

Qué decir… no mucho. Tal vez, de Kafka, hay decenas de cuentos de él que me encantan y que, tal vez, sean más populares (“Ante la ley”, “La construcción de la muralla china”, “Un artista del hambre”), pero elijo La construcción porque me parece que tiene esa sensación de paranoia, de claustrofobia que me parece tan suya y que no encuentro en ningún otro lado… Aparte, al igual que “El castillo”, es un cuento de lo que podríamos llamar “literatura ambiental” o “atmosférica” (en el sentido de que el énfasis está en crear una atmósfera, un ambiente, antes que en la narración, y el cual, a diferencia del terror gótico –que también se especializa en eso- no se apoya en un engorroso lenguaje barroco –el vocabulario de Kafka siempre es sencillo y conciso-, sino en la tortura y la paranoia psicológica), y que a mí particularmente me encanta.

De Borges, también, podría elegir “Funes el memorioso”, o “Tlon, Uqbar, Tertius” o “El sur”, pero “La biblioteca…” tiene ese noséqué de estupor metafísico, de inquietud, de terror ante el infinito y la soledad.

El título de “El cuento más hermoso del mundo” está lejos de ser una hipérbole pretenciosa. Verdaderamente podría estar, cuando un hipotético tribunal futuro juzgue la mera literatura de estas épocas, en la selección de lo más hermoso. Todo en ello es perfecto: la descripción del protagonista, la inquietud de índole fantástica, la aparición del amor.

“Los venenos” de Cortázar tal vez sorprenda a alguno, que esperaba “Casa tomada”. Yo, como pedófilo y como nostálgico sin remedio de la infancia, me quedo con “Los venenos”, un cuento, un relato, que supera, a mis ojos, cualquier belleza: su descripción de la infancia en formato “súper 8”, cargada de melancolía, mirando a través del prisma de la nostalgia al primer amor, ante esa belleza suprema de una niña que “estaba con su vestido de lunares anaranjados, que era el que más me gustaba”, verdaderamente me llenan, me sigue llenando de lágrimas los ojos. Este cuento es la última oda a la niñez, “Music has the right to children” de Boards of Canada hecho literatura, “Cuentos asombrosos” hecho cuento de verdad. Es un relato tan chiquito y perfecto y hermoso y nostálgico y maravilloso y colorido y amoroso que difícilmente tenga parangón. Me parece, para mí gusto absolutamente melancólico hacia la infancia, infinitamente mejor a “Casa tomada”.

Muchos dirán “pero che, ¡’Otra vuelta de tuerca’ no es un cuento!” Pues allá ellos. “Otra vuelta de tuerca” es un cuento largo, pero cuento al fin. ¿Qué me gusta de él? Además de inscribirse en la misma línea de ciertos relatos kafkianos de “literatura ambiental”, una de las cosas que más me gustan de él, y ciertamente no la menor, es Flora. Flora es, en palabras de James, “beatífica visión de belleza angelical”. Flora es la niñita más hermosa de toda la literatura (CAGATE LOLITA). Aparte, ese nombre, Flora, qué nombre PRECIOSO, un nombre tan hermoso y bello como su hermosísima portadora. Así que “Otra vuelta de tuerca” aparte de ser el mejor relato de fantasmas jamás hecho sirve como bonita excusa para estar cerca de una de las más hermosas niñitas de toda la literatura.

Tenía ganas de hacer listas, así que hagamos una media tontuela: mis diez cuentos favoritos (uno por autor y estos en orden alfabético.

“El misterio” – Andréiev, Leonid

“Enoch Soames” – Beerbohm, Max

“La biblioteca de Babel” – Borges, Jorge Luis

“La tercera expedición” – Bradbury, Ray

“Otra vuelta de tuerca” – James, Henry

“Los venenos” – Cortázar, Julio

“La fe de nuestros padres” – Dick, Philip K.

“Tantalia” – Fernández, Macedonio

“La construcción” – Kafka, Franz

“ ‘El cuento más hermoso del mundo’ ” – Kipling, Rudyard

Qué decir… no mucho. Tal vez, de Kafka, hay decenas de cuentos de él que me encantan y que, tal vez, sean más populares (“Ante la ley”, “La construcción de la muralla china”, “Un artista del hambre”), pero elijo La construcción porque me parece que tiene esa sensación de paranoia, de claustrofobia que me parece tan suya y que no encuentro en ningún otro lado… Aparte, al igual que “El castillo”, es un cuento de lo que podríamos llamar “literatura ambiental” o “atmosférica” (en el sentido de que el énfasis está en crear una atmósfera, un ambiente, antes que en la narración, y el cual, a diferencia del terror gótico –que también se especializa en eso- no se apoya en un engorroso lenguaje barroco –el vocabulario de Kafka siempre es sencillo y conciso-, sino en la tortura y la paranoia psicológica), y que a mí particularmente me encanta.

De Borges, también, podría elegir “Funes el memorioso”, o “Tlon, Uqbar, Tertius” o “El sur”, pero “La biblioteca…” tiene ese noséqué de estupor metafísico, de inquietud, de terror ante el infinito y la soledad.

El título de “El cuento más hermoso del mundo” está lejos de ser una hipérbole pretenciosa. Verdaderamente podría estar, cuando un hipotético tribunal futuro juzgue la mera literatura de estas épocas, en la selección de lo más hermoso. Todo en ello es perfecto: la descripción del protagonista, la inquietud de índole fantástica, la aparición del amor.

“Los venenos” de Cortázar tal vez sorprenda a alguno, que esperaba “Casa tomada”. Yo, como pedófilo y como nostálgico sin remedio de la infancia, me quedo con “Los venenos”, un cuento, un relato, que supera, a mis ojos, cualquier belleza: su descripción de la infancia en formato “súper 8”, cargada de melancolía, mirando a través del prisma de la nostalgia al primer amor, ante esa belleza suprema de una niña que “estaba con su vestido de lunares anaranjados, que era el que más me gustaba”, verdaderamente me llenan, me sigue llenando de lágrimas los ojos. Este cuento es la última oda a la niñez, “Music has the right to children” de Boards of Canada hecho literatura, “Cuentos asombrosos” hecho cuento de verdad. Es un relato tan chiquito y perfecto y hermoso y nostálgico y maravilloso y colorido y amoroso que difícilmente tenga parangón. Me parece, para mí gusto absolutamente melancólico hacia la infancia, infinitamente mejor a “Casa tomada”.

Muchos dirán “pero che, ¡’Otra vuelta de tuerca’ no es un cuento!” Pues allá ellos. “Otra vuelta de tuerca” es un cuento largo, pero cuento al fin. ¿Qué me gusta de él? Además de inscribirse en la misma línea de ciertos relatos kafkianos de “literatura ambiental”, una de las cosas que más me gustan de él, y ciertamente no la menor, es Flora. Flora es, en palabras de James, “beatífica visión de belleza angelical”. Flora es la niñita más hermosa de toda la literatura (CAGATE LOLITA). Aparte, ese nombre, Flora, qué nombre PRECIOSO, un nombre tan hermoso y bello como su hermosísima portadora. Así que “Otra vuelta de tuerca” aparte de ser el mejor relato de fantasmas jamás hecho sirve como bonita excusa para estar cerca de una de las más hermosas niñitas de toda la literatura.

Tenía ganas de hacer listas, así que hagamos una media tontuela: mis diez cuentos favoritos (uno por autor y estos en orden alfabético.

“El misterio” – Andréiev, Leonid

“Enoch Soames” – Beerbohm, Max

“La biblioteca de Babel” – Borges, Jorge Luis

“La tercera expedición” – Bradbury, Ray

“Otra vuelta de tuerca” – James, Henry

“Los venenos” – Cortázar, Julio

“La fe de nuestros padres” – Dick, Philip K.

“Tantalia” – Fernández, Macedonio

“La construcción” – Kafka, Franz

“ ‘El cuento más hermoso del mundo’ ” – Kipling, Rudyard

Qué decir… no mucho. Tal vez, de Kafka, hay decenas de cuentos de él que me encantan y que, tal vez, sean más populares (“Ante la ley”, “La construcción de la muralla china”, “Un artista del hambre”), pero elijo La construcción porque me parece que tiene esa sensación de paranoia, de claustrofobia que me parece tan suya y que no encuentro en ningún otro lado… Aparte, al igual que “El castillo”, es un cuento de lo que podríamos llamar “literatura ambiental” o “atmosférica” (en el sentido de que el énfasis está en crear una atmósfera, un ambiente, antes que en la narración, y el cual, a diferencia del terror gótico –que también se especializa en eso- no se apoya en un engorroso lenguaje barroco –el vocabulario de Kafka siempre es sencillo y conciso-, sino en la tortura y la paranoia psicológica), y que a mí particularmente me encanta.

De Borges, también, podría elegir “Funes el memorioso”, o “Tlon, Uqbar, Tertius” o “El sur”, pero “La biblioteca…” tiene ese noséqué de estupor metafísico, de inquietud, de terror ante el infinito y la soledad.

El título de “El cuento más hermoso del mundo” está lejos de ser una hipérbole pretenciosa. Verdaderamente podría estar, cuando un hipotético tribunal futuro juzgue la mera literatura de estas épocas, en la selección de lo más hermoso. Todo en ello es perfecto: la descripción del protagonista, la inquietud de índole fantástica, la aparición del amor.

“Los venenos” de Cortázar tal vez sorprenda a alguno, que esperaba “Casa tomada”. Yo, como pedófilo y como nostálgico sin remedio de la infancia, me quedo con “Los venenos”, un cuento, un relato, que supera, a mis ojos, cualquier belleza: su descripción de la infancia en formato “súper 8”, cargada de melancolía, mirando a través del prisma de la nostalgia al primer amor, ante esa belleza suprema de una niña que “estaba con su vestido de lunares anaranjados, que era el que más me gustaba”, verdaderamente me llenan, me sigue llenando de lágrimas los ojos. Este cuento es la última oda a la niñez, “Music has the right to children” de Boards of Canada hecho literatura, “Cuentos asombrosos” hecho cuento de verdad. Es un relato tan chiquito y perfecto y hermoso y nostálgico y maravilloso y colorido y amoroso que difícilmente tenga parangón. Me parece, para mí gusto absolutamente melancólico hacia la infancia, infinitamente mejor a “Casa tomada”.

Muchos dirán “pero che, ¡’Otra vuelta de tuerca’ no es un cuento!” Pues allá ellos. “Otra vuelta de tuerca” es un cuento largo, pero cuento al fin. ¿Qué me gusta de él? Además de inscribirse en la misma línea de ciertos relatos kafkianos de “literatura ambiental”, una de las cosas que más me gustan de él, y ciertamente no la menor, es Flora. Flora es, en palabras de James, “beatífica visión de belleza angelical”. Flora es la niñita más hermosa de toda la literatura (CAGATE LOLITA). Aparte, ese nombre, Flora, qué nombre PRECIOSO, un nombre tan hermoso y bello como su hermosísima portadora. Así que “Otra vuelta de tuerca” aparte de ser el mejor relato de fantasmas jamás hecho sirve como bonita excusa para estar cerca de una de las más hermosas niñitas de toda la literatura.