Tijuana, Mexico, Octubre 2016: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 20 October 2016
Tijuana, Mexico, Octubre 2016: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 20 October 2016
trump at table
I
will not be attending the White House Correspondents' Association
dinner this year. Please wish everyone well and have a great evening.: image via Hamfisted Bun Vendor @MetalOllie, 25 February 2017
Hamfisted Bun Vendor Retweeted Donald J. Trump
Hamfisted Bun Vendor added,
Whose turn is it to burp the tangerine toddler, and pop him back in his cradle?
image via Hamfisted Bun Vendor @MetalOllie, 25 February 2017
Hamfisted Bun Vendor added,
Whose turn is it to burp the tangerine toddler, and pop him back in his cradle?
image via Hamfisted Bun Vendor @MetalOllie, 25 February 2017
Nobody better than @dougmillsnyt: image via Glenn Thrush @GlennThrush, 25 February 2017
Jeff MasonVerified account@jeffmason1
Jeff Mason added,
tweet via Jeff Mason @jeffmason1, 25 February 2017
At
Trump hotel. Secret Service swarms the place. Trump walks in, sits down
next to me w/ Gov. Rick Scott, Nigel Farage, Ivanka and Kuchner: image via Benny @BennyJohnson, 25 February 2017
Two things:
1. Farage was not invited to this dinner. Squeezed in at last second
2. Sec. State Tillerson is dining w/wife alone across room.: tweet via Benny @BennyJohnson, 25 February 2017
Fascinating: image via Mike Memoli @mikememoli, 25 February 2017
[Untitled]: photo by Tonatiuh Cabello, 3 November 2016
[Untitled]: photo by Tonatiuh Cabello, 3 November 2016
[Untitled]: photo by Tonatiuh Cabello, 6 December 2016
[Untitled]: photo by Tonatiuh Cabello, 24 March 2016
Por aquí no pasó Dios: photo by Tonatiuh Cabello, 5 August 2016
Flor de desierto: photo by Alexis Landin, 7 February 2017
[Untitled]: photo by Alexis Landin, 24 February 2017
[Untitled]: photo by Alexis Landin, 16 February 2017
Encuentros: photo by Alexis Landin, 7 February 2017
[Untitled]: photo by avenida once, 30 January 2017
[Untitled, Coatzacoalcos, Mexico]: photo by avenida once, 2015
[Untitled, Chimalcuacán, Mexico]: photo by la ciudad de las sombras, 22 May 2016
[Untitled, Chimalcuacán, Mexico]: photo by la ciudad de las sombras, 22 May 2016
[Untitled]: photo by Tonatiuh Cabello, 9 January 2016
Waves of humanity. Sprawling Mexico City rolls across the landscape, displacing every scrap of natural habitat: photo by Pablo Lopez Luz via The Guardian, 1 April 2015
Waves of humanity. Sprawling Mexico City rolls across the landscape, displacing every scrap of natural habitat: photo by Pablo Lopez Luz via The Guardian, 1 April 2015
‘If our species had started with just two people at the time of the earliest agricultural practices some 10,000 years ago, and increased by one percent per year, today humanity would be a solid ball of flesh many thousand light years in diameter, and expanding with a radial velocity that, neglecting relativity, would be many times faster than the speed of light.’ Gabor Zobanyi
[Untitled, Mexico City]: photo by avenida once, January 2016
El Cielo
The heaven: photo by Tonatiuh Cabello, 24 March 2016
[Untitled]: photo by Tonatiuh Cabello, 31 January 2017
[Untitled]: photo by Tonatiuh Cabello, 22 March 2016
[Untitled]: photo by Tonatiuh Cabello, 16 November 2016
[Untitled]: photo by Tonatiuh Cabello, 21 November 2016
La vida no es para llevar, es para comer aquí: photo by Tonatiuh Cabello, 14 April 2014
[Untitled]: photo by Tonatiuh Cabello, 24 November 2016
[Untitled]: photo by Tonatiuh Cabello, 11 December 2016
Ecstatic Self-Mortification Practices of the Rifa'l Fakirs. Ajmer, India.: photo by Leonid Plotkin, 15 June 2011
[Untitled]: photo by Tonatiuh Cabello, 5 September 2016
[Untitled]: photo by Tonatiuh Cabello, 20 November 2014
[Untitled]: photo by Tonatiuh Cabello, 20 November 2014
Un enfrentamiento entre policias y granaderos contra estudiantes y anarquistas después de una manifestación por los 43 desaparecidos de la Normal de Ayotzinapan en Guerrero.
[Untitled]: photo by Sylvain Biard, 28 May 2016
[Untitled]: photo by Barry Talis, 7 April 2016
Heavenly City (Life is amazing)
Accident scene, Mexico City: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 20 January 2014
When
did it all begin? he thought. When did I go under? A dark, vaguely
familiar Aztec lake. The nightmare. How do I get away? How do I take
control? And the questions kept coming. Was getting away what he really
wanted? Did he really want to leave it all behind? And he also thought:
the pain doesn't matter anymore. And also: maybe it all began with my
mother's death. And also the pain doesn't matter, as long as it doesn't
get any worse, as long as it isn't unbearable. And also: fuck, it hurts,
fuck, it hurts. Pay it no mind, pay it no mind. And all around him,
ghosts.
.
He could see hills on the horizon. The hills were dark yellow and
black. Past the hills, he guessed, was the desert. He felt the urge to
leave and drive into the hills, but when he got back to his table the
woman had brought him a beer and a very thick kind of sandwich. He took a
bite and it was good. The taste was strange, spicy. Out of curiosity,
he lifted the piece of bread on top: the sandwich was full of all kinds
of things. He took a long drink of beer and stretched in his chair.
Through the vine leaves he saw a bee, perched motionless. Two slender
rays of sun fell vertically on the dirt floor. When the man came back he
asked how to get to the hills. The man laughed. He spoke a few words
Fate didn’t understand and then he said not pretty, several times.
“Not pretty?”
“Not pretty,” said the man, and he laughed again.
Then he took Fate by the arm and dragged him into a room that served
as a kitchen and that looked very tidy to Fate, each thing in its place,
not a spot of grease on the white-tiled wall, and he pointed to the
garbage can.
“Hills not pretty?” asked Fate.
The man laughed again.
“Hills are garbage?”
The man couldn’t stop laughing. He had a bird tattooed on his left
forearm. Not a bird in flight, like most tattoos of birds, but a bird
perched on a branch, a little bird, possibly a swallow.
“Hills a garbage dump?”
The man laughed even more and nodded his head.
“One day, for reasons that are beside the point, I went
with a doctor friend of mine to the university morgue. I doubt you’ve
ever been there. The morgue is underground and it’s a long room with
white-tiled walls and a wooden ceiling. In the middle there’s a stage
where autopsies, dissections, and other scientific atrocities are
performed. Then there are two small offices, one for the dean of
forensic studies and the other for another professor. At each end are
the refrigerated rooms where the corpses are stored, the bodies of the
destitute or people without papers visited by death in cheap hotel
rooms.
“In those days I showed a doubtless morbid interest in these facilities and my doctor friend kindly took it upon himself to give me a detailed tour. We even attended the last autopsy of the day. Then my friend went into the dean’s office and I was left alone outside in the corridor, waiting for him, as the students left and a kind of crepuscular lethargy crept from under the doors like poison gas. After ten minutes of waiting I was startled by a noise from one of the refrigerated rooms. In those days, I promise you, that was enough to frighten anyone, but I’ve never been particularly cowardly and I went to see what it was.
“When I opened the door a gust of cold air hit me in the face. At the
back of the room, by a stretcher, a man was trying to open one of the
lockers to stow away a corpse, but no matter how hard he struggled, the
door to the locker or cell wouldn’t budge. Without moving from the
threshold, I asked whether he needed help. The man straightened up, he
was very tall, and gave me what seemed to me a despairing look. Perhaps
it was because I sensed despair in his gaze that I was emboldened to
approach him. As I did, flanked by corpses, I lit a cigarette to calm my
nerves and when I reached him the first thing I did was offer him
another cigarette, perhaps forcing a false camaraderie.
“Only then did the morgue worker look at me and it was as if I had
gone back in time. His eyes were exactly like the eyes of the great
writer whose Cologne lectures I had devoutly attended. I confess that
just then, for a few seconds, I even thought I was going mad. It was the
morgue worker’s voice, nothing like the warm voice of the great writer,
that rescued me from my panic. He said: smoking isn’t allowed here.
“I didn’t know what to answer. He added: smoke is harmful to the
dead. I laughed. He supplied an explanatory note: smoke interferes with
the process of preservation. I made a noncommittal gesture. He tried a
last time: he spoke about filters, he spoke about moisture levels, he
uttered the word purity. I offered him a cigarette again and he
announced with resignation that he didn’t smoke. I asked whether he had
worked there for a long time. In an impersonal and somewhat shrill
voice, he said he had worked at the university since long before the
1914 war.
“‘Always at the morgue?’ I asked.
“‘Here and nowhere else,’ he answered.
“‘It’s funny,’ I said, ‘but your face, and especially your eyes,
remind me of a great German writer.’ At this point I mentioned the
writer’s name.
“‘I’ve never heard of him,’ was his response.
“In earlier days this reply would have outraged me, but thanks God I
was living a new life. I remarked that working at the morgue must surely
prompt wise or at least original reflections on human fate. He looked
at me as if I were mocking him or speaking French. I insisted. These
surroundings, I said, with a gesture that encompassed the whole morgue,
are in a certain way the ideal place to contemplate the brevity of life,
the unfathomable fate of mankind, the futility of earthly strife.
“With a shudder of horror, I was suddenly aware that I was talking to
him as if he were the great German writer and this was the conversation
we’d never had. I don’t have much time, he said. I looked him in the
eye again. There could be no doubt about it: he had the eyes of my idol.
And his reply: I don’t have much time. How many doors it opened! How many paths were suddenly cleared, revealed to me!
“I don’t have much time, I have to haul corpses. I don’t have much
time, I have to breathe, eat, drink, sleep. I don’t have much time, I
have to keep the gears meshing. I don’t have much time, I’m busy living.
I don’t have much time, I’m busy dying. As you can imagine, there were
no more questions. I helped him open the locker. I wanted to help him
slide the corpse in, but my clumsiness was such that the sheet slipped
and then I saw the face of the corpse and I closed my eyes and bowed my
head and let him work in peace.
“When my friend came out he watched me from the door in silence.
Everything all right? he asked. I couldn’t answer, or didn’t know how to
answer. Maybe I said: everything’s wrong. But that wasn’t what I meant
to say.”
Roberto Bolaño (1953-2003): from The Part About Fate and The Part About Archimboldi, in 2666, published posthumously 2004, English version by Natasha Wimmer, 2008
Police helicopter, Mexico City: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 30 June 2009
Execution, Mexico City: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 8 March 2014
Life is amazing (Mexico City): photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 7 March 2014
Street, Mexico City: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 18 March 2014
Murder victim, Mexico City: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 26 March 2014
Execution victim, Valle de Chalco: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 10 March 2014
Execution victim, Tlalnepantla: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 6 March 2014
Motorcyclists, Nezahualcoyotl: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 2 March 2014
The world's most wanted drug kingpin, Joaquin Loera Guzman, known as El Chapo, is captured, Mexico City: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 22 February 2014
Street, Nezahualcoyotl: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 2 February 2014
Accident scene, Mexico City: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 25 December 2013
Accident scene, Iztapalapa: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 26 December 2013
Accident scene, Mexico City: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 15 July 2013
Accident scene, Mexico City: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 25 November 2013
Hurricane, Acapulco, Guerrero: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 20 September 2013
Slide area, Cuajimalpa: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 26 September 2013
Accident scene, Iztapalapa: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 26 September 2013
Murder victim, Iztapalapa: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 18 July 2013
Accident scene, Mexico City: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 17 July 2013
Tlalpan, Mexico City: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 24 November 2013
x Fatal accident scene, Mexico City: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 11 October 2013
Mexico City: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 31 October 2013
Woman, Ciudad Neza: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 13 September 2012
Iztapalapa, Mexico City: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 15 September 2012
Mexico City: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 20 January 2013
St. Jude the Protector, Mexico City: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 28 July 2012
St. Jude the Protector, Iztapalapa: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 17 March 2012
Santa Anita, Iztacalco: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 1 June 2013
Durango: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 9 May 2012
Exit, Gomez Palacio, Durango: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 1 June 2012
Durango: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 26 April 2012
Durango: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 1 May 2013
Durango: photo by Jair Cabrera Torres, 27 April 2012
Roberto Bolaño: Godzilla in Mexico, from Romantic Dogs
IMG_0190 (Julian, azotea, laundry): photo by locaburg, 6 May 2006
Listen carefully, my son: bombs were falling
over Mexico City
but no one even noticed.
The air carried poison through
the streets and open windows.
You'd just finished eating and were watching
cartoons on TV.
I was reading in the bedroom next door
when I realized we were going to die.
Despite the dizziness and nausea I dragged myself
to the kitchen and found you on the floor.
We hugged. You asked what was happening
and I didn't tell you we were on death's program
but instead that we were going on a journey,
one more, together, and that you shouldn't be afraid.
When it left, death didn't even
close our eyes.
What are we? you asked a week or year later,
ants, bees, wrong numbers
in the big rotten soup of chance?
We're human beings, my son, almost birds,
public heroes and secrets.
Roberto Bolaño (1953-2002): Godzilla in Mexico, from The Romantic Dogs (Los Perros romanticos), poems 1980-1988, published posthumously, 2006, English version by Laura Healy, 2008
over Mexico City
but no one even noticed.
The air carried poison through
the streets and open windows.
You'd just finished eating and were watching
cartoons on TV.
I was reading in the bedroom next door
when I realized we were going to die.
Despite the dizziness and nausea I dragged myself
to the kitchen and found you on the floor.
We hugged. You asked what was happening
and I didn't tell you we were on death's program
but instead that we were going on a journey,
one more, together, and that you shouldn't be afraid.
When it left, death didn't even
close our eyes.
What are we? you asked a week or year later,
ants, bees, wrong numbers
in the big rotten soup of chance?
We're human beings, my son, almost birds,
public heroes and secrets.
Roberto Bolaño (1953-2002): Godzilla in Mexico, from The Romantic Dogs (Los Perros romanticos), poems 1980-1988, published posthumously, 2006, English version by Laura Healy, 2008
DSCF8927 (Playa Trocones): photo by locaburg, 22 December 2013
IMG_0848 (dog, ice cream): photo by locaburg, 16 October 2013
IMG_8746: photo by locaburg, 16 October 2013
DSCF3123: photo by locaburg, 25 September 2012
DSCF8730 (Great Dane, Mexico City): photo by locaburg, 25 September 2012
IMG_8848 (dog): photo by locaburg, 16 September 2010
IMG_9833 (dog, Mexico): photo by locaburg, 23 August 2007
IMG_9782 (three white dogs): photo by locaburg, 8 June 2010
IMG_8676 (walking dog, red panuelo): photo by locaburg, 4 June 2009
IMG_8807 (dogs, Xoloscuintle): photo by locaburg, 7 December 2005
IMG_0845 (muzzled dog): photo by locaburg, 11 September 2009
IMG_4737 (dog): photo by locaburg, 15 February 2008
IMG_6617 (pot, dinner, dog): photo by locaburg, 31 March 2006
IMG_1482 (dog, skull, Xoloscuintle, iztapalapa): photo by locaburg, 16 February 2011
IMG_7684 (dog, car, brick): photo by locaburg, 22 December 2009
IMG_6051 (dog, hatchback): photo by locaburg, 28 November 2008
IMG_0025 (bridge, dog, pozos): photo by locaburg, 5 December 2007
IMG_8746: photo by locaburg, 6 October 2010
IMG_1024 (dog, man. sidewalk, root): photo by locaburg, 26 June 2010
IMG_2002 (dog, Monte Escobedo, Zacatecas): photo by locaburg, 10 January 2008
DSCF6782 (roadside, Malinalco): photo by locaburg, 11 April 2013
DSCF6782 (turtle, Malinalco): photo by locaburg, 11 April 2013
IMG_8914 (duck): photo by locaburg, 24 November 2010
DSCF7787 (cat): photo by locaburg, 11 June 201
3
DSCF5143: photo by locaburg, 14 December 2012
IMG_9030: photo by locaburg, 3 July 2013
IMG_9136: photo by locaburg, 3 July 2013
IMG_1963: photo by locaburg, 27 February 2014
IMG_2095 (Bosque de Aragón): photo by locaburg, 6 October 2013
IMG_8109 (boy, hammer, Narvarte): photo by locaburg, 2 March 2013
DSCF3034 (couch, Mexico City): photo by locaburg, 15 September 2012
IMG_8128 (ladder): photo by locaburg, 9 November 2010
DSCF4443 (bamboo sticks): photo by locaburg, 29 January 2012
DSCF6749 (Arena Mexico): photo by locaburg, 23 April 2012
IMG_2455: photo by locaburg, 3 March 2014
DSCF2457 (Hummer, Detroit): photo by locaburg, 27 August 2012
3 comments:
"Hoy no paso nada. Y si pasó algo es mejor callarlo, pues no lo entendí».R.Bolaño...
Tom-
Chasing the tides and fish with a few friends on one of the least populated out islands in the Bahamas. I ran into Jake, a stubby legged, elongated mutt, and was playing with him when a smiling woman waked by saying, "He's the most playful dog." I agreed and recalled your comment on the culture of community for pets in such places. There it is. A world's happening. Ironically, in a round about way, I stopped in a gas station, convenience store, place of worship and barber shop. Somehow, in the middle of Clark, Shacochis, and Bolaño.
Tom.
"Todo el realismo visceral era una carta de amor, el pavoneo demencial de un pájaro idiota a la luz de la luna, algo bastante vulgar y sin importancia."
What is it they used to call it -- "a dog's world?" (Mondo Cane)
In daydream night thought now, to fly without wings to the least populated out-out island...
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