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Dear Ana Leonor,

Today I went to buy some newspapers because your father asked me to do so. The layer of snow on the ground was soft, almost invisible. Your father wants to someday read the newspapers of the day you were born. I think a nice idea. I bought two newspapers, one national and one local. I also asked several friends who get the papers where they live. I bought mine in a corner store next to the pet store where we buy food for our cats (in the windows of the pet shop is home to three huge fat cats happy frolicking all day using the sun). Both newspapers cost less than three dollars. The Lord of the store, he gave me the impression of being one of those forty years that appear to sixty-five to tip ill-chosen gestures and gray hair, was dressed in a sweatshirt adidas brand and looking for something under the counter. It took a few minutes to realize he was standing in front of the box. Beside the box was journals, pencils and sweets for sale. When I looked up and I think that cost him understand why I expected. Just look at me after a couple of seconds he noticed the papers on the counter, which had been revised, saw their prices memory in the box and gave him a twenty dollar bill. Once I got the lap back to their searches under the counter. I wonder if when you're twenty years this description will make sense to you. I think, as I leave the store, these newspapers are not rare because they talk about the day of your birthday for sure when you grow up any computer will let you back in time efficiently, but because they are paper documents that still made sense when you were born but soon left to exist.

At 9:28 am, when you were born, I worked a little bit (ended up writing a research project), take you and playing with my cats. I hope you do not have allergies (your contemporaries co-nationals are full of them) and that one day you know. Gonta, the smaller of the two, is five months. Pliny, the elder, is three and a half. Sometimes they want and sometimes hate. Theirs is a difficult friendship. Today around noon, when I received the message telling me that you were born your father, Pliny was very angry with Gonta do not know why. Long-bristled and meowed as warning that this time was serious, then he jumped and rolled around the neck. I had to separate them and reassure Pliny. I think that abuses the good grace Gonta Pliny and every so often runs out of patience.

Monica came a while ago of his work. Right now she is studying mice that have eating disorders (a byproduct of his research on the brain) and want to understand why the mutant mice will not eat or do not process food properly. Monica said that today was in the animal house (where the mice are born) and saw two very proud mice each with six newborn mice crowded. Then I showed him the pictures that your parents sent us. You look like an angry troll. Surely in a few years will tell you it took you more than necessary to leave. In the photos it is clear that for you you had stayed inside your mom your whole life.
Tonight
ate a potato omelette with onions and a chocolate banana sorbet. Monica was accompanied with pan con tomate. Now we're in the room. On television is giving Law and Order. The story is gruesome and violent. Cats sleep (Pliny on the sofa in a box Gonta medium to destroy the seized yesterday). Monica check things on your computer. Morning to discuss whether we will see Avatar, a film that debuted today and, I suspect, will disappear forever before you are old enough to see it. It's sad because it is assumed that it was a very expensive film. Certainly when we see tomorrow impress us, but suffice two or three years for any striking effect of that film to be trivialized and the novelty wears off. I hope that when you start to see movies there is still enduring film that survives the test of time. I wonder if when we know you look very old. I wonder if you think that the music we love is music of old. I wonder if one day your parents will complain about the music you like. How is this music? What will be so distant from us than we think, what we think is the world? Will we be able to understand you? Do we hate for being old and backward? Do we adapt to your world?
Dear
Ana Leonor, with this little letter I wanted to welcome you to this planet in the name of Monica, Pliny, and I Gonta. We're happy you've come and we hope soon to meet you and show tunes. This has been a nice day.

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Experience Points 2009 (3rd/4th Level Bard / Priest (Scholar))


I return this blog to follow the example my friend Nelson.

I did very little in 2009. I hate my self for this year. Since I was not consistent with my plans and defer too much. All this must be improved. In any one year was not empty. Many changes and some progress. We moved to Canada, example. That was a big change and not yet concluded. I was in Poland two weeks. I loved it. I finished (finally) my first academic article, I received reader and corrections applied. It was enriching. I think I understand my results much better now. I also learned a lot about the difficulties of writing mathematics. wrote an article for The Malpensante on Farrah Fawcett and I still like to feel proud of. I made a copy of the Codex Seraphinianus . I love (h) leaf through. I learned to make small programs in Python. After several hard collisions and somewhat sad, I have much more clear the difficulties that make my current projects are essentially mathematical unworkable. This is a rare kind of progress, a bit frustrating, but I guess is part of the chosen path. I started writing biweekly columns in The Spectator on science, technology and society whose style I'm still not convinced. This is my favorite but I think it had poor ratings. I took (with Monica) a baby cat. We call Gonta and today is the best and worst friend Pliny had. co-organized an academic meeting in Lyon that was entertaining and interesting (in addition to allowing me to see many good friends). I bought a SLR camera and now play to take pictures. I read many good books. I understand a little more, just a little French. I continued, slowly, working on the script (code name) Underworld, a small book of paranormal stories I put together.

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Vacation


The Ballad of the Blue Elephant is on vacation. Meanwhile, we invite you to follow our breviary in Tumblr or our waterfall of nonsense and twits. Until next time.

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Logicomix (1): Bad and good news.

Logicomix read. I saw him yesterday at the bookstore and I endured. I was not disappointed but not surprised me. It is a book well done, has an interesting structure, play at various levels, attempts to explore themes that are usually neglected in literature and does so in a polite way, say. The crisis of the foundations of mathematics is a great story, full of interesting characters, all with huge egos, which they embarked, each in its own way the task of solving a problem that had been around forever but everyone had overlooked: what are the foundations that support math standing? Are they solid? Are they resilient? "There!? For a long time, no one doubted the strength of the system. This is what happens when things go and bear fruit: it creates trust in tradition and over time that trust is confused with the certainty that nothing can happen and everything will remain as it always has been. It is assumed that the crisis was a product of non-Euclidean geometries but others say the work (great) of Cantor on the nature of infinity also contributed. I think it was something had to happen sooner rather than later. When in a game of Jenga tower doubt grows too is inevitable: there is something down? In the late 19 had sufficient overlapping pieces (enough geometry, algebra enough, enough analysis) to start looking down gently and make sure there is more than air. Something that I really liked the Logicomix is that manages to convey how the journey from Hilbert's problems to the incompleteness theorem was a feat which concluded initially caused great consternation among the protagonists. For a moment the epic drama morphed into tragedy. Many were defeated. Many understand the results Gödel as an unacceptable failure prevented us regain confidence in the old toy. However this did not happen. Gödel's theorems, eventually, convinced us that mathematics were not sentenced to automation. That was his true meaning. The theorems are not talking about the inability of the system but about our importance in the game. Mathematics was not a diversion program that could walk away and leave the machines. That was good news. Many great things have happened since then. Logicomix finish, perhaps, too soon.

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The price of chicken

Following is a phenomenon for which no explanation meeting:

few days ago we went to a big supermarket and supposedly cheaper to make the first major purchase of supplies for the home. For this purpose we set up our shopping we bought at Walmart and walked the twenty minutes that separate us from the supermarket (called No Frills). In our usual list of ingredients never fail chicken breasts because they are versatile. The chicken breast is the tofu of carnivores. Unfortunately, the chicken costing thirteen U.S. dollars a kilo. The price seemed outrageous and not buy. To compensate Portugal got sausage. We did it on Monday with potatoes and apples.

Two days ago we went to Valumart which is two blocks away (but supposedly not as cheap as No Frills) and, out of curiosity, I checked the prices of chicken, still blazed on my honor that price for insulting the other day. Valumart, however, offered a kilo of chicken breast eighteen dollars. I gulped.

sad truth is, I said to Monica, the chicken will become a luxury. The chicken should never be a luxury. Luckily

beef liver is always given. Yesterday we

Valumart to buy the baking powder to make a banana bread. Again we cross the area of meat and again, out of curiosity, I checked chicken prices. Chicken breasts cost seven dollars a kilo. Among surprised and excited to buy fourteen breasts and went into the freezer.

I wonder what the reason for these fluctuations.

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Although Atlas is not a machine built to handle textual materials, he uses the dead hours of the night to get it to print out thousands of lines in the style of Pablo Neruda, using as a lexicon a list of the most powerful words in The Height of Macchu Picchu , in Nathaniel Tarn's translation. He brings the thick wad of paper back to the Royal Hotel and pores over it. 'The nostalgia of teapots.' 'The ardour of shutters.' 'Furious horsemen.' If he cannot, for the present, write poetry that comes from the heart, if his heart is not in the right state to generate poetry of its own, can he at least string together pseudo-poems made up of phrases generated by a machine, and thus, by going through the motions of writing, learn again to write? Is it fair to be using mechanical aids to writing — fair to other poets, fair to the dead masters? The Surrealists wrote words on slips of paper and shook them up in a hat and drew words at random to make up lines. William Burroughs cuts up pages and shuffles them and puts the bits together. Is he not doing the same kind of thing? Or do his huge resources — what other poet in England, in the world, has a machine of this size at his command — turn quantity into quality? Yet might it not be argued that the invention of computers has changed the nature of art, by making the author and the condition of the author's heart irrelevant? On the Third Programme he has heard music from the studios of Radio Cologne, music spliced together from electronic whoops and crackles and street noise and snippets of old recordings and fragments of speech. Is it not time for poetry to catch up with music?

He sends a selection of his Neruda poems to a friend in Cape Town, who publishes them in a magazine he edits. A local newspaper reprints one of the computer poems with a derisive commentary. For a day or two, back in Cape Town, he is notorious as the barbarian who wants to replace Shakespeare with a machine.

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Gonta

El sábado adoptamos a Gonta. Eight weeks old, about a kilo, innate ability for climbing (of people) and several energy MegaJules. It is also a ninja. Following the narrative tradition of offering ads online abandoned cats, Gonta is the only survivor of a litter of seven that the rescue group found in a dumpster in a bag. Gonta and Pliny, after overcoming their initial territorial disputes, have become brothers and (thus) irreconcilable enemies, despite the mutual hatred, sleep together and embrace each other when nobody is looking. My grandmother, who always hated that my grandfather had dogs, but was she who would take care of them play, tells me to say that I am not fond of them. That is idle beloved animals. Animals to die. What to keep tears for the things that matter. My mom says you never can / should love animals and want to people because people well, are people. I can not believe that anyone could measure and differentiate the love for the things you want depending on the (ephemeral) nature. So far I think I have never failed to give affection. Is it because I want some.

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No

I will say more: dogs should not die because they are machines to give love. While people are mean and selfish, dogs are sincere friends who trust in us and appreciate any gesture of affection that we give. They live for these actions and to reward them handsomely. No one loves us more than a dog who we love.

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I wish I had a daughter named Adelaide

few days ago we went downtown to see District 9. After leaving the theater we walked along the Dundas Street east until you reach Adelaide Street. Those who know the city have warned us that we must never cross the Adelaide street because the other side of Adelaide Street, well, bad things happen. Monica was in a bad mood when we left the cinema, so had to walk. The film decompensation a bit, me too. This is one of those films that shows slightly veiled versions of real events whose reality you know or think you know but either way, seeing them on screen, whether in sci-veiled versions, with teasing. It's not because you forget or need to verify this because. The film does not establish anything. The film simply arouses indignation that you always have saved between the ribs, the out of the lethargy and says hey, do you remember?, And indeed the thing between the ribs and hit agree and generates the usual empty the brain turns physical (I'm pretty liberal with the physiological and neural mechanisms here, apologies) in anger or frustration or helplessness, or another one of those things that if he is caught on a bad day do mourn and / or resist the urge to give something solid fists to at least hurt. It's kind of sad to have to watch movies to think about such things.


The walk to the Adelaide street comes to mind because District 9 is a film about segregation. Some say the fundamental reference is the Apartheid, because, of course, is filmed in Johannesburg, but I think District 9 segregation we're talking about more current and perhaps more subtle. Segregation as evidence that our walk to the Adelaide street where, from a certain point, the urban landscape change dramatically and we are no longer in the center of the city to be in a low brick buildings (some sealed, some not) and dinners for breakfast (coffee, bacon, egg, bread) for four dollars and gentlemen left in the street smoking cigarettes and tiny pieces of women in dirty pajamas morbidly obese rabbits littered the sidewalks roll their electric chairs while hugging a giant package of pretzels as his only true friend. Society, like the city, changes across Adelaide. Adelaide is a portal. Half a block to the east is a library mystical red walls and black curtains with pictures of Anton LaVey in the window, and against this library an abandoned shopping center that survives only an outdoor bar filled with shirtless bearded gentlemen. In one corner is a refuge for addicts with a notice board on the door saying that there are no quotas and many people in the front yard stops drinking coffee in paper cups. Barely speak. The area has several used furniture stores. Everything smells like flea market, incubated old dirt and dust, fungus. People look at us in passing. I think we had never felt so outsiders like walking there. Hard to believe it is only twenty minutes from here.