the dog walker

 For the first time in months and months, I took my two dogs for a walk, one at a time. They cannot go together because the young one goes bonkers at the sight of another dog and she feels backed by Chucho, the old guy. Those months ago when I made the mistake of taking them together, they managed to knock me down in front of a fenced yard filled with small yapping dogs. 

That is unfair, it was the young dog, Pecas, whose leaping and twisting while barking knocked me over. Realizing that taking them both was simply undoable, I took Chucho home and took Pecas by herself. With no backup, she revealed that she is terrified of the street. That made her quite obedient since she kept close to me on a very short leash.

But of course, with no help at all, I managed to trip on the sidewalk and crash to the ground. There were a couple of people around, but they weren't about to approach me. I had a dog and that stopped any aid I might have gotten. I was not injured, actually, but it took me a long time to right myself. It frightened Pecas too, what was I doing on the ground like that, so suddenly?? 

Then came the diagnosis of a labral cyst, which got worse during the observation weeks, and an x-ray showed that another part of my hip was threatening to become bone on bone. Thus the total hip replacement which imposed a period of almost no activity, which in turn triggered once more a raging fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue. 

But today that ended, as far as the dogs are concerned. Yes, one city block felt like a marathon, yes, I was weak, sore, and aching, and yes, I wondered if I was going to have a heart attack. But we made it, one dog at a time.

However, other interesting matters had to be sorted first. Pecas can be without Chucho for a bit, and without me if she is with Chucho, but she can't be without us both. I had to convince my husband that he would have to undergo Peca's howling and barking because I was going to take Chucho first. He deserves it, he seems depressed and had just spent the night trembling through a thunderstorm.

Pecas went into her cage, which she loves, and I left with Chucho. I think the noise inside the house probably registered on the Richter scale, but when we returned after a very short walk, Pecas was quiet. Her walk was tense and challenging. She hates the street, and we saw three border collies on leashes, which sent her into a crescendo of howling and barking. But we made it, and I let her stop any time to sniff the trees and grass. Her attention span on the walks is so captured by fear that I couldn't teach her the "left" order when I changed directions. Inside the house, she learns things I never taught her, but outdoors terror takes over her mind. It's going to be a long road, but we will try anyway.

There is a lesson her for all of us and any dog owner or parent should learn it immediately. You do not trick children or dogs. You don't pretend. You don't try to save yourself bother by deceiving a child or a dog. You don't leave a dog in the back yard so you can sneak off with another one; your yarded dog will know about it, and it will never trust you or the back yard again. Children and dogs can absorb the facts of life if you let them.

A dog will learn that you will come home again. It will learn to take turns and love it. It will adore you as a result. It might forgive you if you try to deceive it if you undo the harm.

A child may never trust you again. Be careful. Be kind. 

At last!!

 I watched each day of the Democratic convention that ushered in Tim Walz and Kamala Harris. It was such fun!

After many years, when Biden was still the most likely candidate, I had decided not to vote. Not because of Biden exactly, although it seemed obvious to me that the dear man is in trouble thanks to age and a degree of cognitive decline--at least speech-related, in other areas one doesn't know. But the reason is because I have to mail my vote into Travis County in Texas, a state that is to the right of Vlad the Impaler, a state that sends all its electoral college votes to the Republican candidate, whether he is a psychopath or felon or too ignorant to read. My expat votes only affect the president, vice-president, and senators who are running in the election. The senators are Ted Cruz, who was servile enough to tolerate the insults Trumps sent his way and whose wife Trump denigrated, and another old sagging ultraconservative who probably sleeps most of the day. The get elected again and again, thanks to the apparent death of thought in Texas except for Travis County, home of Austin, may it always be weird. Though Travis County tends to be Democratic, it is also the home of the state government, which on more than one occasion has resorted to fisticuffs. 

But now that Harris is running, I requested my ballot because I want to vote, once more, for a woman. A woman who this time may actually win. Of course, Hillary won the popular vote by some 2.9 million people, but thanks to the insanity of the electoral college, she lost the presidency. The poor founding fathers, who did not really trust the voters back in their day, established the electoral college so that the electors could overturn the popular vote if the people elected a dictator, a madman, a felon, or a weirdo. Guess what!!! Now its only purpose is to suffocate the popular vote no matter what kind of dictator, madman, felon or weirdo manages to convince enough people in swing states (whose power is absurdly antidemocratic) that he should be elected. 

My vote won't matter if Texas does its usual Back to Transylvania act, but I don't give a damn. It´s enough just to not feel stupid. 

Book club

 For several years, a group of friends and I gathered for a literary workshop under the guidance of a truly wonderful teacher. During the pandemic, several of us decided we had had enough of Zoom--everything was Zoom, it was exhausting--and the club then lost the teacher who was given an important job chairing a literary seat at the state university. 

Finally we have gotten back together at the host's home each Wednesday, and our trial of another teacher was sadly unsuccessful since several people didn't like him. Now we are on our own, and it works rather nicely.

Our first selection was The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdi. This is a hard book to read because it is very long, it is in the realm of magic realism, it is layered with symbolism and meaning, and it feels so very wild! It is a brilliant book, with some glorious comic moments. I began reading Midnight's Children, curious if all Rushdi's books are vast and roam the world, but this one is different. It is a delight. It is also easier to read!

Then we took on Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison. A marvelous book in spite of the underlying theme of trauma and slavery, of generational suffering, shot through with moments of enlightenment and connection. I am reading Beloved by Morrison, another stunning adventure in literature. 

The book club itself is such a relief from the suffocating boredom of each day. Two of my best friends are in the club, and the host, a psychoanalyst and psychiatrist, is the personification of kindness and good humor. 

There is, however, a major pain in the ass in the club too, damn it. I call her the Kafka Woman, since when she first entered the group, she seemed to relate everything in life to Kafka. That seems to have faded away, thank the Force, but she has something irrelevant to say about every single idea that is tossed around in the club. My friend Nancy periodically says, "Now, returning to the book..." in order to get Kafka Woman to shut up. She didn't attend the club for a long time, but her husband has taken an interest in it, so that means she will show up because he will show up. Crap! He does not know me and kept looking at me during the session--not because of my looks, believe me, folks, I am proudly an old swamp witch--and I fear he is too interested in my long-gone fame as an editorialist for our local newspaper.

Again, crap!

On another front, the drought-tough grass we had put in seems to be growing, but there is another kind of grass poking its way up through the sod that needs to be pulled. I aint going to do that. It is hotter than Hell's waiting room today, and I am too tired and sore to take on the job. I would happily mow the lawn with my manual mower if that were the job, but not the bending and pulling to get that rogue grass out.

I am propagating desert willow; I have one that is large and a new one recently planted. I have some cuttings and seeds in pots waiting to see which pots produce a tree. These glorious drought and heat resistant plants produce beautiful flowers that are magnets for my hummingbirds. My other plants are doing both great and oddly. My lemon tree is going like gangbusters in a pot, thanks to some fantastic fertilizer pods, my chile serrano is bumby and too small, my sweet basil is doing fine but has to be protected from the godawful sun. After I first used the lemon fertilizer pods, the next day the soil was dug up and the pods gone. I blamed possoms and covered the area with hot sauce to discourage them. But the next day, the same disaster occurred. Turns out it was my dog Pecas. The pods contain animal elements that must smell wonderful to a dog, so now the whole lemon tree pot is covered with permeable cloth tied down and weighed down. 

The dog is fine. Seems the pods are tasty and harmless.

Alone but not lonely

 There are moments, sometimes days, if you have fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue, when any level of living together is too much. As a friend said not long ago, you are like a doll with no battery: you seem fine, but the soul is lacking.

Or, as another friend (a doctor) said to me, "Hey, if someone says you look fine, tell the person it's not your face that is sick." 

After shifting around the house like the domestic ghost, keeping out of the way as the marvelous lady who runs my home cleans, vacuums, and generally keeps things functioning, I finally decided that survival demanded my own room, my own space, my own stuff. 

My old study/session room I used when I was still working is the perfect space in spite of a degree of lack of light. Yesterday I hauled a mattress from a guest room into my study and left it on the floor. It's good enough there. I had to order a replacement for the guest room, of course, but with Amazon riding the ether, that was no problem.

Now it's full of my books, my CPAP machine, my banana pillow, all kinds of odds and ends I particularly like, and it may look crammed, but it's perfect. There is a tiny waiting area with a desk and a bookshelf, and a bathroom complete with shower. There is a small throw rug. 

This is not just a "room of one's own", however. It is a tool to eliminate my addiction to watching any ridiculous streaming movie in order to shut my mind up and let me sleep. Because I have back problems if I sleep on my stomach, I had moved to the t.v. room with the dogs to sleep on a couch that prevented me from turning onto my stomach and killing my back. But that caused me to watch literally anything, the worse the better, in order to stop thinking and go to sleep. You wouldn't believe the crap that has lulled my too active mind, even, may the Force help me, Transformers! The parameters for nighty-night viewing include non-stop action, a storyline that makes subtitles irrelevant so that I don't have to wear my glasses, and enough chaos so that I can turn the sound completely off without affecting the anesthesic effect of the so-called plot.

Last night I tried to sleep in my room. One problem is the dogs. They were disconcerted but they are not letting me out of their sight, so there was a lot of moving around, checking back and forth, and cold noses pressed against mine during the night. 

Nobody tried to get onto the bed with me, no matter how accessible it was. Two things were noted: one, I need to get a water dish for the dogs and maybe something more than the throw rug for them, and two, I couldn't sleep worth a damn without my visual anesthesia. I wound up in the t.v. room again although I don't know what time that happened.

Addictions are terrible things, no matter if it's hard drugs or cigarettes or Coke or streaming rotten movies. The work to defeat an addiction is a killer. May the Force aid anyone fighting to throw out the mental garbage or the physical torture chamber of an addiction.

By the way. So far, no answer to any of my letters. 

Grass!

 Our region has suffered a prolonged drought that put the local dams to the point of extinction. During this time, at my house we have stored water falling from the roof during the scarce rainfall, water condensing from an a/c unit that drips from the roof, directing the washing machine water into a big tank, and I went so far as to save water by practicing storing urine (check The Earth Institute) to use as fertilizer. It makes sense, you know. It's the best fertilizer around and a toilet wastes tons of water just to eliminate a few milliliters of pee. I had to quit, though, when I ran out of containers to store it.  

After some rain from hurricane Albert and Beryl, the dams are somewhat recovered. Meanwhile I let my yard die. There was no point in watering the grass. I turned part of the yard into a desert area with nopales and agave cacti, a huge amount of work but well worth it.

For months we debated whether to get the massively expensive fake grass or try for tough natural grass that might outlive the next drought. After realizing how hot fake grass would get in a 42 degree Celsius day with full sun, we also realized you would have to cool it down...with water. An added problem was the existence of an invasive tree that broke into parts of our house through the cement. We didn't know the tree was such a menace (it's called palo blanco) until it invaded us, so we had let the thing grow and prosper for years. It had been here when we bought this house decades ago.

Our first task was the destruction of the palo blanco. Nature made this tree to face all comers. My first puny efforts were laughable, such as pouring salt water on the sprouts it sent up around the yard. The palo blanco does not produce flowers or seeds. It reproduces by sending roots from the main tree out dozens of yards into the soil where it then turns into more trees as it pops up its little leaves all over the place. We were forced to hire people to cut down the tree, dig out the roots which were alive in spite of the herbicide we had applied, and then dig up the entire yard in order to scotch the chance the devil tree was hiding roots unseen and laying in wait.

Finally it was done, and we decided to chance real grass. It came in turf rugs that are now all over the yard and which I am hovering over like a mom with a new baby. And yes, it will have to be watered here at the beginning for about two weeks unless we get more rain, but now the dogs can go outside and come back in without covering the floor with dirt, mud, and leaves. Grass! Impractical, supposedly unecological, and in our case, the only natural ground covering that will work in this heat and sun. 

My dedication is total. I have a weedeater and a manual lawn mower now. Bring it on, as she says! (And you know who says that, right?)

And by the way...

 After years of listening to my husband encourage me to publish a book I wrote many moons ago, I finally decided to do it. It is at Amazon, of course, under the pseudonym Patrick Church. The title is "Cold Snap". it is a murder, but not a mystery, because you know who does it and how. If anyone is curious, there it is.

Bionic hip

 Thanks to my rude lifestyle that has included falling from horses and being bowled over by my dogs, one of my hips has had to be replaced. The surgery was, oddly enough, entertaining. I sang one of my favorite songs and declared that the surgeons sounded like carpenters. You can pretty much assume I had some fun drugs for the procedure.

Recovery was rough but there is a whole slew of "by the way" items you don't hear about until after the surgery is done and you are home having to deal with these items. By the way, your legs will no longer be the same length, and the one operated on will be longer. This means you will have to compensate by placing partial insoles into the shoe for the opposite leg. You can try whole insoles, but your foot will be crammed into the instep part of your shoes and your toes will be popping out of the end.

I went for the partial insoles. And by the way, you have to get rid of a rather large number of shoes. Got any high heels? Adios, amigos! Sandals? Well, do you mind if the partial insoles are so very visible if you try to wear the cute little strappy sandals? So far I have kept soft flats, ballet-type flats in fact, and tennis shoes loose enough to allow blood to circulate in the lifted foot. I also still have some wedgies that I fantasize wearing even though I suspect it will be an exercise in pain management.

No more riding for me, either. My horse has a trot like a Beetle with no shock absorbers, and no running either, because both activities can eventually damage the implant. Maybe "eventually" is the clue here. I'm almost eighty years old and "eventually" has a really short shelf life, so who knows? Could a slow trot on the treadmill really be so terrible?  And if I got on the horse, could I just ride around with no trotting or galloping? No, that part isn't going to work, I feel. 

But I have my dogs. There is a sign on my front door that states: "Spoiled dogs (and their staff) live here." I think that sums it up.

Letters unanswered...

 A long time ago, I wrote a letter to a grandchild, a teenage boy. I had nothing unusual to say but writing letters on paper, in longhand or printed with a computer, is a thing of the past. Now our words are as fleeting as the dry leaves of fall. They may stay forever in the "cloud" but they are fragile, paper in pieces, history forgotten and unretrievable. 

Recently I wrote a letter to my Congressional representative, since so much that is happening in Mexico is out of sight, and our ambassador is a wannabe cowboy whose main concern seems to be, well, being seen. So much of what happens here concerns the United States, but my specific topic was the damage to my health caused by a nearby refinery using fuel oil to produce gasoline. The contamination of our air is horrendous. And yet Mexico's constitution, mostly a document of good intentions, guarantees clean air and water as human rights. 

On the same topic, I wrote a letter to the Secretary of State, Antony Blinken, and though I did not truly expect an answer from someone whose aides probably sift through and filter letters, I in fact did not get one. Not even an acknowledgement that a letter was sent.

My Congressman also did not answer.

Last week I sent a letter to the Nobel Peace Prize Committee, suggesting David Attenborough as the recipient of the prize. That letter went to Norway, of course, and God knows if I will ever hear from them. My mistake may be that I put my actual home address on my mail, since the Mexican postal service is in terminal care thanks to email, Whatsapp, and the rest of the virtual gang.  

The most disappointing of it all is that it seems not to matter that someone takes the time and effort to write and mail a real letter, on paper, in black and white.  I could say "stay tuned", but what for? I only have a vague hope that the Norwegians might actually contact me. 

But maybe not.

The horrors of faking it

Anyone who has taken to keto eating may get a hankering for a carb-filled stack of pancakes and some maple syrup.
   There are all kinds of recipes for keto pancakes and keto maple syrup you make at home with weird ingredients such as xantham gum.
   Let me tell you right now, get over your craving and stick to your veggies, berries, and proteins.  Keto pancakes, compared to whole wheat pancakes or spelt pancakes, are ghastly and should be shot on sight.  And the homemade maple syrup is a profound insult to maple and syrup.  Go not there.
   Eventually the desire for carbs will reduce drastically because you begin to feel better without them.  Stick to the real thing, no matter what it is, and if you really want pancakes, try some incredible cottage cheese pancakes--light, fluffy, and minimal flour.  But don't insult them with some demonic substitute for maple syrup. 

I see that I have been far, far away from my recipes, comments, and rants.  For some reason I thought this site had folded!

A few surprises in the past few years: Lubbock produces lots and lots of wine!  Who would have thought that civilization had taken root there!

Two grandchildren are now in college.

My brother has an absolutely magnificent house inside a barn!

I have begun writing for the newspaper again. 

Do not rely on automatic translators.  Some of the results are high comedy.  Unless you want a good laugh, of course.

One of my followers seems to have died.

And now I have to go to work, so I will be back when I have something to say.

Cannoli from the Soprano Family Cookbook

This recipe makes 16.  You can buy cannoli tubes at kitchen supply stores.  You should have at least 8 in order to make this recipe comfortably.

For the ricotta cream:

2 pounds whole-  or part-skim milk ricotta
1 1/2 cups confectioners' sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 ounce semisweet chocolate, chopped
2 tablespoons chopped candied orange peel (you can make this yourself with equal parts water and sugar and the outer peel of the orange.  Boil until the peel is translucent.)

For the shells:

2 cups all purpose flour and more as needed
1 tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon unsweetened cocoa powder
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons vegetable oil
About 1/2 cup dry white wine

1 egg white beaten
vegetable oil for deep frying
Candied cherries or orange peel and confectioners' sugar for decoration, if desired.

I used mascarpone instead of ricotta because it is richer and you don't have to drain the ricotta to get rid of the liguid; if you use ricotta, drain it with cheesecloth over a strainer, pressing out all the water you can; can be left in the fridge overnight with a plate over it as weight to press out water.  (You see now why I used mascarpone!)

For the shells, in a large bowl combine flour, sugar, cocoa, cinnamon and salt.  Stir in the oil and wine and mix to make a soft dough.  Turn on to a lightly floured surface and knead until dough is well blended and smooth, about two minutes.  Shape into a ball, cover with plastic wrap, and let sit at room temperature for at least 30 minutes.

Cut dough into four pieces.  Beginning at middle setting, run each piece through the pasta machine, dusting with flour to prevent sticking.  Keep running it through until you reach the last or next-to-last setting.  You should be able to see your hand through the dough.  If you are doing this by hand, keep rolling until you get the dough very thin.  The pieces should be about 4 inches wide.  Measure your cannoli tubes and cut pieces from the dough that are one inch shorter than the tubes.  (I just made sure each piece would fit around my cannoli tubes and were shorter than the tubes themselves.)

Oil the cannoli tubes.  Place dough around each tube and dab a little egg white on the point where the  pieces overlap on the tube, being careful not to get any on the tube itself. 

Heat oil to around 375°F.  Fry tubes, a few at a time, turning them to brown them all over. Remove with tongs to paper towels to drain.  While they are still hot, remove the tubes by grasping each tube with a hot pan holder and pushing the cannoli off each tube with your hand or with tongs.  Be careful.  They break easily. You should have little trouble if your cannoli tubes are new and well-oiled.

Cool the shells on paper towels. 

The filling:

Mix all the ingredients except the decoration.  Whip until smooth.  Place in a pastry bag or a plastic bag with one corner cut out, and pipe the filling into each tube, filling one side half full and turning the tube to fill the second half.  Sprinkle with confectioners' sugar, if desired (it's overkill!) and enjoy.

Estos, sí

Capeado sabroso

3/4 taza de harina
2 cucharadas fécula de maíz
1/4 cucharadita bicarbonato
1/4 cucharadita polvo para hornear
1/4 cucharadita sal (esto lo encontré insuficiente, yo usé como 3/4 cucharadita de sal)
3/4 taza agua

Agregar al gusto: paprika, chili powder, ralladura de limón, polvo de ajo.

Mezclar justo antes de freír el pescado.  Servir con salsa tártaro o gajos de limón.

Capeado II

Esta receta es muy diferente, pero deliciosa:

Picar finamente ajo y romero; rallar cáscara de limón.  Mezclar con maíz para polento.  Salpimentar pescado, o agregar la sal y la pimienta a la mezcla para capear.  Presiona el pescado en la mezcla de polenta, freír para dorar el capeado en una aceite neutro.

Cornbread, Northern style

1 taza harina
3/4 taza harina de maíz (corn grits o maíz para polenta)
1/3 taza azúcar
3 cucharaditas polvo para hornear
1/2 cucharadita sal
1 taza leche
1/4 taza aceite vegetal (no aceite de olivo)
1 huevo

(Mónica, tendrás que ajustar la receta para hornear a la altura de la Cd de México, instrucciones en Internet)

Mezclar todo para incorporar bien los ingredientes.  Colocar en un molde para panqué, previamente engrasado e enharinado.  Hornear a 425°F durante 20 minutos o hasta que un palillo insertado en el centro salga limpio.

Se pueden agregar granos de elote amarillo.  El pan es delicioso con "chile con carne" y platillos picosos o fuertes.

EXCESO DE SENTIDO

En una conversación reciente con algunos colegas, salió a relucir un comentario de Albert Camus sobre el suicidio.  Como bien reconoció Freud, cada vez que se hallaba pisando terrenos psíquicos misteriosos para explorarlos, encontraba las pisadas de los poetas que lo habían precedido, y el tema del suicidio no es una excepción.

  La sabiduría popular reza que el suicidio sucede cuando una persona no encuentra un sentido a su vida.  Camus sabía, sin embargo, que un individuo se suicida cuando su vida tiene un exceso de sentido.

  Cualquier psicólogo clínico puede confirmar lo preocupante de estar acompañando en psicoterapia a un paciente que desee quitarse la vida.  Las formas de morir no se limitan a aquellos actos fácilmente reconocidos como letales, sino que incluyen la anorexia, la bulimia, toda la gama de conductas riesgosas desde los actos sexuales sin protección con gente desconocida hasta manejar sin precaución. 

   Los pequeños suicidios metafóricos en la gente joven no son raros: mutilarse, cortarse, perforarse, quemarse, someter el cuerpo al dolor de mil formas, a veces con el paradójico fin de saberse vivo, ya que se siente muerto, o de poseer mediante el dolor un cuerpo que no se sabe propio. 

  ¿Qué quiso decir Camus al hablar de un exceso de sentido?  Nos tiene que preocupar, porque existe una particular relevancia cuando vemos con tristeza el número de jóvenes que piensan en la muerte. 

   El informe de la Organización Mundial de la Salud sobre violencia nos dice que el suicidio, como acto cumplido, tiende a presentarse con mayor frecuencia entre los individuos que envejecen, pero en términos absolutos, hay más suicidios entre las personas menores de 45 años de edad.  Este perfil difiere notablemente de aquel de hace 50 años: el número absoluto de suicidios tendía a aumentar junto con la edad.

   Actualmente, la incidencia de suicidio es mayor entre los individuos menores de 45 años en una tercera parte de todas las naciones, independientemente de su nivel de desarrollo o riqueza.  Este es un cambio impactante, y de seguir así, pronto no sólo en términos absolutos, sino también en proporciones, serán los individuos relativamente jóvenes los que se quitan la vida.

   ¿Qué llevaría a una persona a querer morir en la plenitud de su vida?  ¿Por qué quisiera morir un adolescente o un adulto joven, con toda la vida por delante?

   Tal vez sea más fácil observar la verdad plasmada en la opinión de Camus cuando se trata de un joven con deseos de morir, aunque es válida la observación a cualquier edad.  ¿Cuáles desilusiones, qué vaciedad puede haber en una vida que apenas arranca?  ¿Qué podría interferir tan mortalmente en la realización de lo que Freud consideraba la salud del alma: amar y trabajar?

   Si tuviera que resumir brutalmente la respuesta en una frase única, sería: el letal peso del deseo ajeno.

  No es la falta de valores, aquella trilladísima frase que ha quedado sin sentido ya, pero sí puede ser una forma muy particular de desilusión: la desilusión consigo mismo del que no puede cumplir las expectativas imposibles de un otro, expectativas silenciosas que se transmiten de mil maneras.  Es el hijo que no puede realizar la consigna de rescatar el matrimonio de sus padres, de ser el sustituto emocional de su padre o madre, la joven cuyo único campo de autonomía es el alimento que se rehusa a ingerir. Son los jóvenes que sólo encuentran un camino a la libertad de tantísimo exceso de sentido mediante la muerte.

   Casi todos los que trabajamos en la psicología clínica hemos encontrado a jóvenes cuyo significado y sentido yacen en la consigna de, precisamente, morir, una orden emitida por la locura ajena de padre, madre, o abuelos.  La importancia de su vida se halla en la necesidad de sacrificarse para salvar a algún otro, de realizar una peculiar forma de homicidio en representación de ese otro, y practicado sobre ellos mismos.

   Para estas personas, su dilema no se compone de las imposibilidades de ser perfectas, de ocupar lugares de otros, de cargar con las necesidades emocionales de seres queridos, sino de servir a los vivos a través de una muerte.

  El terrible peso de semejantes deseos ajenos reside en su invisibilidad al ojo común, y su insidiosa actuación dentro del individuo se percibe como un vacío, un hastío, una ausencia de los placeres ordinarios de la vida cotidiana.  Por eso lo que reporta el involucrado es un árido llano gris sin horizonte, un paisaje ni siquiera de pesadilla, sino de desolación callada. 

   La sabiduría de esta observación de Camus señala el camino a la salvación, pero parece ser un camino poco reconocido: la vida cobra importancia cuando al individuo se le resta la misma.

   Para el que desee morir, no hay que luchar por enseñarle cuán importante es, cuántos valores bellos contiene la vida, cómo lo quieren otros.  El que desee morir sufre ya de una importancia excesiva que no quiso, valores que no son suyos, amores que matan.  El aire que deseara dejar de respirar está vacío: su oxígeno ya lo consumieron otros.

  El que desee morir requiere la enorme libertad de ser insignificante, ordinario, común y corriente. Necesita andar por el mundo descubriendo sus propios deseos. Tiene que deshacerse de las cadenas de la omnipotencia imposible y la perfección inalcanzable. 

  No le hacen falta las lecciones moralistas, llenas de acusación disfrazada de cariño, para agregar a su culpabilidad y su rabia. 

  Su alma requiere ese silencio lleno de vida que reconoce nuestra impotencia ante la muerte.  No es el silencio de la desesperanza, sino de la escucha.  Existe un destello de salvación en el mensaje de un ser querido, dispuesto a amar sin acusar, que se confiesa indefenso ante el deseo de morir del otro.

  En el horizonte vacío de su existir, que se reconozca la validez de un solo deseo suyo, aunque sea la muerte, puede ser el inicio de la vida, una vida felizmente sin exceso de sentido.

  karen_batres@yahoo.com

  

A slight difference...

In science, a theory is a comprehensive explanation of observed phenomena which manages to cover all bases.  Its value can be seen when the scientific theory is used to predict events--the arrival of a comet, the shape of a hummingbird bill as derived from the shape of the flower it feeds upon, the existence of subatomic particles which explain the behavior of atoms--and are subsequently discovered.

A hypothesis is not a theory.  A scientific theory does not mean that someone has an opinion about something; it is a set of FACTS.  A hypothesis is a tentative explanation of observed phenomena that cannot attain the status of theory until the scientific method has provided enough evidence to support the explanation.  Only then does it become a theory, a term indicating its validity in the face of testing.

This means, of course, that the theory of evolution is not someone's opinion.  It is a set of facts.  The difference between science and other types of thinking is that science never claims to have discovered the ultimate truth, since as science itself advances in its ability to observe phenomena, new events may come to be known.  It is precisely science's astonishing ability to observe more and more of the cosmos that is so exciting and ground-breaking.

Nothing so far, however, has been able to undermine the facts on evolution.  Quite the contrary, it has been enlarged by many thinkers who add a swirl here, a squiggle there, to enrich it hugely.

So when someone tells you that evolution is "only" a theory, that person really means that it is just someone's opinion.  The person does not understand what a scientific theory is and cannot distinguish it from a hypothesis.  Most of these people, however, are uninterested in the difference, since their agenda is usually religious, where they want you to accept a given truth and stop thinking.

It would be well to note that Isaac Newton, one of the greatest scientists who ever lived, was a religious man, as were many others before and after him.  The difference, however, is that their God was impressive enough to work with atoms, subatomic particles, calculus, gravity, the Big Bang, eons of time, DNA, the primeval ooze, and the evolution of life.  Newton didn't go around scared silly of finding out that orbits are elliptical and Darwin wasn't appalled into silence at the idea that all life crawled out of some mudflat (a fact that DNA has amply proven).  Their God was not one of these prissy little man-made, small-brained creations that don't want you to think.

Their God was magnificent, flinging the universe down as a challenge, defying humankind to discover its fathomless secrets bit by bit, century by century, one atom at a time.  Now that was a God not made in man's image.

IDIOCY SQUARED

Sometimes people do stupid things, even really smart people.  But Texas seems to have a degree of inspired stupidity that simply takes the breath away.

    The bunch of I’ve-got-a-steel-rod-up-my-ass defenders of freedom and hatred who set up some kind of cartoon roast of Mohammad in Garland, Texas, probably—no, surely—haven’t read the Quran and are clueless as to the actual teachings of Mohammad.  They are simply setting up an anti-Islam demonstration of freedom of speech and world-class, slack-jawed, drooling idiocy.  They are unable to distinguish between Arab culture and Islam, one of which (the former) causes lots of trouble for anyone and everyone, and the latter, which is a religion just like the rest of ‘em—you can read anything you want to in so-called holy scriptures not matter what the brand.

    Most of the United States is quite conservative by world standards, but Texas is so far to the right it may fall off the edge of the world at any moment.  They can do this because they are still back there in the flat-earth crew; many of Texas’ churches preach that man and dinosaur lived at the same time and that humankind has been just like it is now, having sprung fully developed from the forehead of…no, wait, that is mythology.

    As someone in San Francisco said to me when he heard about people living alongside dinosaurs back in the day, “Hell, we must have been a lot faster than we are now.”

     It is ironic that these groups are proof positive that evolution is a sound scientific theory, because looking at them, you can see that some of us didn’t quite make it.  No chimp or gorilla would do anything even remotely as stupid as setting out to insult someone they know nothing about and writings which they haven’t read.  There is always the exciting prospect that Texans are the missing link, but, to toss a wet blanket over that notion, it is more probable that they are the link between some primitive ancestor and the big primates of today, except for humankind.  Some have even put forth the theory that these groups prove that you can, in essence, devolve instead of evolve.  This is a scary idea indeed, and considering the numbers of people who reject anything scientific, it could be that the U.S. is upon a terrible path backward.

    Except Austin.  Austin rocks.  Austin calls itself weird, but Austin doesn’t know what weird is.  Austin thinks that if you have big music festivals, fantastic restaurants, aging hippies and young hippies, and lots of very smart people, it makes you weird.  Not really.  It just makes you fun.  Weird in Texas, maybe…

     One of these days Austin is going to have to secede from Texas, kick out the Lege, and set itself up as a republic.  The new capital of the former Texas, soon to be known as “Duhland”, could be Garland.  It has a certain ring to it…Garland, Duhland…and the state animal could be the velociraptor.  The pterodactyl probably won’t be the  Duhland state “bird” because it’s possible no one can spell it.

   

PASIVO AL CUADRADO

En su libro “Naked Economics” (Economía al desnudo), el autor Charles Wheelan señala que un grupo minoritario determinado y bien organizado puede influir de forma impactante en las políticas gubernamentales, sociales o económicas aún en contra del bienestar en general.

    Este fenómeno se debe a que el resto de la sociedad no considera el tema del grupo de suficiente importancia como para justificar acción.  El ejemplo que da el autor es el siguiente: el gobierno estadounidense desde hace décadas paga subsidios a un pequeño grupo de productores de cierto tipo de lana para que éstos puedan seguir económicamente activos. Al resto de los ciudadanos de aquel país les importa poco la relativamente pequeña cantidad del erario destinada a este renglón a pesar de que sus impuestos son usados para tal fin.  Los rancheros que crían estas ovejas y producen esta lana simplemente operan bajo el radar de la vasta mayoría de la población.

    Mucho peor es el ejemplo de la ley de la Prohibición, cuando un grupo vociferante, moralista, y equivocado logró imponer sus puntos de vista sobre el país entero, disparando una de las peores oleadas criminales en la historia del país y dando un ímpetu a la incipiente mafia americo-siciliana que no ha cesado hasta la fecha. 

     México tiene una abundancia de grupejos vociferantes que intentan proteger intereses políticos o comerciales, o que trabajan en contra de los intereses políticos y/o sociales de gobiernos, partidos, y organizaciones.  La enorme pasividad tanto de la población—con algunas excepciones—como de las autoridades federales encargadas de mantener un nivel funcional de orden y paz es simplemente inaceptable.

    La pregunta es, ¿qué impide la actuación del gobierno federal en casos obvios de desorden e ingobernabilidad?  ¿Qué clase de autoridad tenemos que no puede, o no quiere, hacer lo necesario para proteger el derecho a votar en los estados como Guerrero y Oaxaca? 

    Una parte de la respuesta es el temor a la opinión extranjera que nos tachará de represores.  Otra parte es el temor a la opinión pública mexicana en tiempos electorales.  Lo que el Gobierno Federal no parece entender es que parte del hartazgo que sienten los ciudadanos es causada precisamente por la impunidad que el mismo Gobierno solapa y promueve con su pasividad.  Los ciudadanos están hartos, mas pasivos; el Gobierno Federal es pasivo por temor, y el país padece todas las consecuencias negativas aumentadas al cuadrado de esta doble pasividad.

    Una de las consecuencias es el sentir de muchos ciudadanos que parecen añorar a un caudillo; demasiada gente pensó que la democracia todo lo iba a resolver como arte de magia, y como ello no ocurrió, tenemos que regresar a los tiempos en que “las cosas sí se hacían”.  El proceso de aprender cómo ser un país democrático es largo y a veces el camino no está pavimentado, pero se tiene que andar.  El mayor peligro para la democracia mexicana es un Gobierno que no ejerce su legítima y democrática autoridad; ¿quién no añoraría un gobierno “que sí hace las cosas” cuando el que tenemos no parece ser capaz de parar movimientos violentos; que permite el bloqueo de carreteras y calles al detrimento de los demás ciudadanos; que sigue en eternas mesas de diálogo con grupos que no están ahí para realmente dialogar; que consecuenta la violación de los derechos humanos de miles de mujeres indígenas por temor a ser etiquetado de “anti-indigenista”; que tolera un gobierno del Distrito Federal que viola los derechos de tránsito de cientos de miles de ciudadanos y que permite actos vandálicos sin precedente en tiempos de paz?

     El Gobierno Federal es el encargado de proteger el crecimiento de la democracia mexicana, facilitando un espacio y las condiciones para ese crecimiento; pero cuando es retado con violencia, no sabe responder consistentemente. Pasivos nosotros y pasivo el Gobierno: una fórmula riesgosa.

EL FRAUDE

Varias organizaciones internacionales que vigilan la honestidad en etiquetas y orígenes de productos vendidos globalmente concuerdan en que la venta del aceite de oliva es probablemente el fraude agrícola mayor.

    Dos terceras partes (en realidad un poco más) del aceite de oliva extra virgen en el mercado estadounidense ni llenan los requisitos de extracción para la designación “extra virgen”, y en algunos casos el producto contiene aceites que no provienen de la aceituna.

    El aceite extra virgen es extraído de la aceituna con un proceso mecánico en frío que conserva las propiedades de sabor y nutritivas del aceite; el producto así fabricado es más caro que un aceite que es el resultado de un proceso más comercial que utiliza el calor, o que proviene de una extracción secundaria.  Y de ahí el interés de los fabricantes en el fraude: venden un producto inferior a un precio superior.

    ¿Cómo saber qué comprar?  En primer lugar, el vidrio de una botella de aceite de oliva extra virgen es oscuro para proteger el producto de la luz solar que deteriora las cualidades del aceite.  Si se encuentra en un pasillo del súper donde da el sol, es mejor no comprarlo.  Si el vidrio no es oscuro, eviten el producto.

    La lista de ingredientes suele ser tan pequeña que hay que usar lupa para enterarse de todo; pero además, no hay garantía de que la etiqueta no mienta.  El asunto de la etiqueta es el corazón del fraude, por supuesto.  Se ha visto que la mitad del aceite de oliva que se vende como “italiano” es de España, un pequeño dato que la etiqueta no revela.

    Tanto la marca Filippo Berio como Carbonell han sido implicadas en el fraude, aunque ello no quiere decir que todos los aceites de esas marcas sean adulterados.  Es un poco más seguro comprar un aceite orgánico o con designación de origen, y siempre con una fecha de caducidad en la botella, ya que el aceite se deteriora con el tiempo.

    Compré seis botellas de aceite de oliva para examinarlas.  Una botella pequeña de Carbonell venía en vidrio amarillento, aunque el sabor era algo afrutado y agradable.  Las demás botellas (Filippo Berio, Farchioni, y dos botellas Central Market de HEB) venían en vidrio casi negro.  La marca Central Market tiene designación de origen y es un aceite orgánico.  La marca Farchioni implica en la etiqueta que es un aceite orgánico pero la palabra que se usa en italiano es “biológico”.  En tal caso, lo único que se puede inferir sin error es que el producto no contiene ingredientes no biológicos, pero sí podría contener aceites que no son de oliva.  No obstante, hay una fecha de caducidad, instrucciones de guardar la botella lejos de la luz y el calor, y no desecho que estén diciendo la verdad.

     El sabor del aceite puede ser afrutado, pimentoso, algo amargo, pero siempre con la sensación de que no hay cosas raras—mustio, por ejemplo, o agrio.  El aceite extra virgen se usa en ensaladas y otras preparaciones donde el sabor importa mucho; si ustedes compran el aceite por sus efectos benéficos en la salud, lo más seguro es el tipo extra virgen.  Si simplemente desea un aceite más sano para cocinar, el aceite no tiene que ser extra virgen, pero sí tiene que ser de oliva.  Las adulteraciones con aceites de otras fuentes son inaceptables porque algunos de estos elementos de adulteración son nocivos para la salud.

    En general, los aceites más sanos, aunque ustedes no lo crean, son ghee, o mantequilla clarificada, aceite de oliva, y manteca de cerdo.  Los más recientes estudios sobre las grasas muestran, en primer lugar, que el colesterol en la dieta no tiene nada que ver con el sanguíneo, y que las grasas animales son sanas.  Para los que quieran leer más, ahí les va la lista de fuentes:

The Big Fat Surprise, de Nina Teicholtz (el más divertido de los libros)

The Great Cholesterol Myth, de Sinatra y Bowden (son un poco exagerados pero los estudios que citan son buenos y profesionales)

Overdosed America, de Abramson

Overdiagnosed, de Welch, Schwartzl, y Woloshin

     Información sobre el fraude del aceite de oliva se puede encontrar en Internet; son muchas fuentes, algunas mejores que otras, pero es una lectura muy interesante.

   

   

 

     

EL EXTREMISTA

En las semanas después del ataque a Charlie Hebdo, y después también de escenas de barbarie de parte del Estado Islámico y Boko Haram, después de la cantada “primavera árabe”, después del ataque en Tunis que causó la muerte de varios turistas que visitaban un museo, se ha hecho evidente que el mundo occidental no comprende las bases ideológicas de estos primitivos movimientos.

    Los más extremistas de los proponentes del Islám han dicho claramente que la democracia es una violación de los preceptos religiosos; sólo su dios y sus leyes plasmadas en el Quran pueden gobernar un pueblo, y es una vejación que el hombre pretenda gobernarse por sí solo.

    Ed Husain, otrora extremista, explica claramente en su libro, “El Islamista”, cómo es el proceso mediante el cual un musulmán de segunda generación en Inglaterra se convierte en un individuo dispuesto a abandonar todos los valores familiares y culturales de su crianza y devenir enemigo del pueblo que los acogió.

    Explica que la segunda generación se encuentra en una especie de limbo: no es igual a los padres que emigraron y se establecieron en un país no musulmán porque no comparte la historia cultural de los progenitores.  Pero como estas comunidades de inmigrantes tienden a vivir en enclaves con sus semejantes, muchos de la segunda generación tampoco se integran plenamente en la sociedad inglesa (o francesa, o italiana, o sueca, etc.).  El resultado suele ser una especie de inquietud ansiosa que busca una identidad que apacigüe la sensación de no pertenecer en ningún lado.

    Esta generación es especialmente vulnerable a líderes dinámicos que plantean el Islam no como una religión de vida espiritual sino como una consigna de acción, sobre todo acción política con fines de establecer el estado islámico.  Parte integral de la postura es el rechazo de todos los “musulmanes a medias”, que incluyen a la generación anterior, los líderes árabes de países que colaboran con Estados Unidos (Arabia Saudita es especialmente señalada), y cualquier país no musulmán.  La ideología es usada para crear odio.

    Este concepto de rechazo gana fuerza con incidentes como la guerra de los Balcanes en la cual la población musulmana de Bosnia sufrió atrocidades (que por cierto fueron filmadas y las películas usadas para la radicalización del autor del libro mencionado). Los líderes islamistas que reclutan a los jóvenes hacen hincapié en que el mundo de occidente reaccionó tarde para abordar el conflicto armado en Balcanes, y lo atribuyen al hecho de que estos países no tienen interés en el destino de las poblaciones musulmanes.

  Paso a paso, Husain describe cómo los “activistas” que no proponen la radical politización del Islam van perdiendo influencia ante el deseo de esta segunda generación de “hacer algo”, de establecer su identidad como musulmanes (a pesar de que muchos no comprenden plenamente las enseñanzas del Quran), de desahogar resentimientos que ellos mismos han ayudado a crear al no querer integrarse a la sociedad del país donde nacieron, atrapados como son entre la cultura de sus padres y la tendencia de aislarse en comunidades de sus semejantes, por un lado, y la modernidad de Occidente por otro.

    Esta es tierra fértil para líderes extremistas que con táctica, sagacidad, y un dominio psicológico de las necesidades de los jóvenes, logran sembrar sus semillas de odio y violencia.  Estos son los jóvenes que salen de Inglaterra, Francia, Alemania, España e Italia para luchar con el Estado Islámico. 

    El mundo occidental no parece entender esto.  Todo lo atribuye a “prejuicios” y “racismo” del país anfitrión sin reconocer que hay personas que no desean integrarse aún si pueden. Otros inmigrantes han superado el racismo y el prejuicio para convertirse en parte de la sociedad adoptada; pero la presencia del extremismo islamista es una trampa terrible para la segunda generación de musulmanes en Occidente, y para el mundo entero.

   

EL BRONCO Y LAS TRANCAS

Jaime Rodríguez Calderón hace gala de la necesidad de extirpar a los políticos corruptos, malos, y flojos.  Expone sus puntos de vista en un video en redes sociales, colocándose una vez más como el paladín de los ciudadanos y el azote de los partidos podridos.

     Siempre es delicado hablar de la deshonestidad de otros antes de examinar la limpieza de las propias ropas.  Hace muchos meses, mucho antes de los tiempos establecidos en los reglamentos electorales para las campañas, los grandes panorámicos anunciaban las posturas de Rodríguez Calderón.  El truco utilizado para brincar estas particulares trancas resultó ser la frase “la película” al calce de los panorámicos, como si se tratara de un film biográfico sobre los quehaceres del sujeto en cuestión. 

    No sé qué me resulta más burdo: el truco y la incapacidad de los reglamentos electorales de contemplar semejante ardid, o la deshonestidad del auto-nombrado ejemplar de la honestidad.

    Es la maniobra más vieja de todas presentarse como “el candidato desde fuera” del orden político que llega para limpiar el mugrero.  La maniobra es vieja porque suele ser eficaz, cuando menos así ha resultado en Estados Unidos donde es usada en cada campaña presidencial reciente.  La desconfianza estadounidense en sus políticos no es muy distinta a la nuestra a pesar de la gran diferencia en la historia de cada país.  Esto se debe en gran medida a la naturaleza actual de las campañas electorales, cargadas como son de propaganda que se extiende como fuego debido a la tecnología moderna.  Cualquier insinuación, insulto, táctica propagandística, rumor, tergiversación, o mentira recorre la población a la velocidad de los electrones.  Lo mismo sucede con la información, las verdades, el análisis, las dudas, y las preguntas.  Pero por encima de las demás cosas, se buscan candidatos con un perfil popular, sonrientes, simpáticos, comunicativos, capaces de atraer a la gente sin poner demasiado en juego sus calificaciones para la chamba que buscan.  Y cuando los elegimos basándonos en esas características, desilusionan.  Nos caen bien y eso nos ahorra la molestia de analizar sus capacidades y su historia.  Pagamos el precio luego.

    Los ataques masivos, pintando a todos los partidos y a todos los políticos con la misma brocha negativa, es una maniobra común para que un candidato se distinga tajantemente de “los otros”.  Es tan injusto como deshonesto, pero utiliza nuestra desilusión y desconfianza, por no decir nuestra abismal flojera, para ahorrarnos el trabajo de cuestionar y analizar.  O tal vez, de leer.

    Hay de trancas a trancas.  Algunas son los impedimentos de la vida que requieren persistencia y valor para brincar, para lograr las metas planteadas, para salir adelante aunque sea a contracorriente.

    Otras se llaman “leyes”.  Habría que pensar que los ciudadanos vamos a pagar las campañas electorales; los requisitos para que un ciudadano sea candidato independiente existen en todos los países democráticos, y en efecto, como dice Rodríguez Calderón, representan impedimentos.  Es adrede.  De no ser así, nos iríamos a la bancarrota tratando de pagar las campañas de cada tío que de repente se crea capaz de gobernar. Si el ciudadano tiene suficiente interés en la candidatura independiente de Fulano o Mengano, entonces que se avoque al trabajo de recabar firmas a favor de su candidato.

    Pero cuidado brincando las trancas que son leyes.  Es precisamente lo que han hecho demasiados gobernantes.  Es precisamente lo que les reclamamos.  Nos parecerán bien o mal esas trancas, pero la forma de cambiarlas es otra.  Un caballo desbocado se lleva de encuentro lo que tenga delante aunque tenga que destruir el obstáculo.  Lo que queremos en nuestros candidatos es experience documentada, mesura, inteligencia, honestidad, arrojo, valentía.  Que nos hablen con los hechos, no con el manipuleo de la propaganda.