Thursday, March 31, 2011
One of a Kind Spring Show + Sale
With a full tummy, I headed out to browse the show. Here's a few things that caught my eye:
Sweet dresses from Keiko, booth A-54. The ladies at this booth were sooooo excited because it was the first show they ever had a booth at - and because the blogger paparazzi was taking photos of their booth :) The dresses were lovely, made of Japanese linen in the most darling of patterns. I bought one for Chloe and if I can get the kid to stand still for a photo, I'll show it all to you ;)
More darling dresses at Red Thread, booth E-11. I just loved the bright, colourful fabrics which screamed summer. Still kicking myself in the pants that I didn't pick up one of their hats for Chloe.
Stylish accessories at Mally Designs, booth B-07. These leather products are hot amongst the mommy set. I loved the graphic bibs.
Retro original art from Kelly Grace, booth H-06. This "Date Night" series was so fun.
Pseudo paint-by-numbers art by Liscious, booth H-20. Don't they have a great vintage, cottagey feel?
This was my favourite display. L'Atelier Du Presbytere, booth M-50 sells wares made from authentic vintage linens from Southern France. The husband and wife team moved to Montreal five years ago, and hand crafted every piece you see here. This attention to detail, and the fact they have chosen not to distribute through larger retailers in order to main creative and quality control, results in beautiful pieces of impeccable style. They will soon be adding antique pieces shipped from France to their online store... I know I'll be checking them out!
There's something at the One of a Kind Spring Show + Sale to fit every taste and budget. It is definitely worth a visit to find something unique, handcrafted, and made by Canadian artisans to put in your home.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Gov Malloy to kick off CT Film Festival
City Council members Paul Rotello, Tom Saadi and Connecticut Film Festival Director Tom Carruthers announced today that Connecticut Governor Dannel Malloy will attend the opening ceremonies of the Fourth Annual Connecticut Film Festival in Danbury on Wednesday, April 6.
Governor Malloy, who as a youth struggled to overcome a learning disability, is scheduled to speak at the VIP reception for The United Way of Western CT and WeCAHR then attend the Welcome Reception at the Palace Theater from 6:15pm – 6:45pm where he will kick off the 2011, Danbury festival discussing his own struggle to overcome Dyslexia.
After receiving the news that the Governor would attend Carruthers credited Councilman Rotello and Saadi stating “for weeks I was concerned that the Governor’s busy schedule and town Hall meeting would prevent him from attending the Film Festival but after enlisting the help of Councilmen Rotello and Saadi they were able to work with his staff and bring this to fruition.”
Councilman Rotello, a longtime supporter of the Film Festival praised Governor Malloy for attending the Film Festival. “After three years of the City providing funding we are pleased with the progress Mr. Carruthers is making with the Festival and the Governor’s visit underscores that progress,” Said Rotello.
“The Governor kicking off the Film Festival demonstrates his commitment andf efforts to revitalizing Connecticut’s downtowns and support for local merchants during difficult economic times” Said Saadi.
Danbury’s Palace Theater will open its doors for the Forth Annual Connecticut Film Festival on Wednesday April 6th at 6:15 PM.
5 CD: Lisa Wilson-Foley throws hat into Congressional race?
Simsbury Republican Lisa Wilson-Foley attended a “Liberty Unplugged” fundraiser in Avon Friday evening and told some of the 100 guests that she will be a candidate for the Republican nomination for Congress in Connecticut’s 5th Congressional District. The open seat is an invitation to crowded races for the nomination of both major parties. Wilson-Foley, who ran for the Republican nomination for lieutenant governor last year, will join Mark Greenberg and Justin Bernier, both making return bids for the congressional nomination. Farmington Republican and former FBI agent Mike Clark is expected to join the race late this week.
NGC 5584:
The view from College Station (click pic for larger view):
Explanation: Big, beautiful NGC 5584 is more that 50,000 light-years across and lies 72 million light-years away toward the constellation Virgo. The winding spiral arms of this gorgeous island universe are loaded with luminous young star clusters and dark dust lanes. Still, for earthbound astronomers NGC 5584 is not just another pretty face-on spiral galaxy. Home to some 250 Cepheid variable stars and a recent Type Ia supernova explosion, key objects for astronomical distance determinations, NGC 5548 is one of 8 galaxies used in a new study that includes additional Hubble Space Telescope observations to improve the measurement of Hubble's Constant - the expansion rate of the Universe. The results of the study lend weight to the theory that dark energy really is responsible for accelerating the expansion of the Universe, restricting models that try to explain the observed acceleration without the mysterious dark energy. In this sharp Hubble image of NGC 5584, many of the small reddish smudges are distant background galaxies.
Comunidade News on Danbury 11 case: "The court documents proved that he [Boughton] lied"
NOTE: This editorial was written in Portuguese and translated to English via Google Translate. The translation is off due to the limitations of Google.
In my last editorial, I reported here as the Immigration Department gave a shot in the foot by arresting and trying unsuccessfully to deport an American citizen as if it were an undocumented immigrant. The failure cost taxpayers $ 400,000 in damages to Rennison Castillo.
Now is the time from the City of Danbury, CT, also pay for its mistake. It left last week the outcome of the process in which the city and the Department of Immigration were defendants. Mark Boughton struck a deal with justice by agreeing to pay $ 400,000 to 11 Ecuadorian immigrants. Other $ 250,000 will be paid by ICE, the Immigration Police.
The case, known as "The Danbury 11", has generated much controversy in the state after 11 day laborers, all undocumented immigrants from Ecuador, were arrested in a trap. A plainclothes policeman passed by an employer interested in hiring workers. Upon entering the car, they were taken to a place where they were arrested by ICE agents.
Mark Boughton, known for his anti-immigrant in the city, denied all along that the city knew of the operation, moreover, he had no knowledge of what was to happen.
The court documents proved that he lied. Boughton had made several requests to Immigration to make beats on the spot where migrants are seeking work. In addition, the driver of the car was a police officer.
On the brink of having to go to trial and spend even more money from municipal coffers, Boughton has accepted the agreement and pay compensation.
It is noteworthy here that the immigrants' lawyers, the Yale Law School and later the firm Gibson, Dunn & Crutcher, Washington DC, worked for free in the case.
The events serve to alert anti-immigrant, even being here without proper documents, the immigrants have rights. One prohibits any person from being discriminated against based on race, religion, race and marital status.
These people were arrested, not because they are looking for work, but simply because they were immigrants, particularly Latinos.
The stupidity of the mayor, backed by a group of extremists, put paid to all taxpayers of the city of Danbury.
I hope the lesson has been learned.
Regards,
Brenda Mata
RIP Maxwell's
I was planning on writing on what I learned regarding the whole Maxwell's closing situation but Mark Langlois at the Danbury Patch pretty much nailed it.
Maxwell’s Sports Bar and Grill closed at 1 Ives St., last week and sometime between midnight on March 24 and 1:27 p.m. March 25, someone stole 14 TVs, liquor, three kegs of beer and two video games.
“They were carefully removed,” said Capt. Thomas Wendel, spokesman for the Danbury Police Department. “None of the wires were severed.”
Wendel also said there was no sign of forced entry into the downtown eatery.
This isn’t good news for Ives Street, said Victor Aravena, who opened the Alley Way Diner, 14 Ives St., in 2006.
“I’ve seen three pizza restaurants come and go and nine other places come and go out,” Aravena said. “We’re getting Sonic, but the heart of Danbury is slowly dying. It used to be a destination.”
Ives Street has been in a tailspin since the mayor's office placed new restrictions on establishments on the street once known as a popular entertainment destination.
Wendel also said there was no sign of forced entry into the downtown eatery.
This isn’t good news for Ives Street, said Victor Aravena, who opened the Alley Way Diner, 14 Ives St., in 2006.
“I’ve seen three pizza restaurants come and go and nine other places come and go out,” Aravena said. “We’re getting Sonic, but the heart of Danbury is slowly dying. It used to be a destination.”
[...]
One of the numerous changes Danbury is considering involves the ordinance that says a restaurant is a business that makes most of its money from food, while a nightclub makes most of its money from liquor. The city limited the number of nightclubs allowed. (So business owners sought restaurant liquor licenses, but served little or no food, the city argued.) Now the city is struggling to find a balance. In the economic downturn, the city ordinance seems to be getting in the way of business.
“Something drastic has to happen,” Aravena said.
It may not sound drastic, but the city is preparing a downtown plan that will look at this issue and other downtown issues with the goal of improving downtown Danbury.
“We’re evaluating the whole issue of night clubs and the food and beverage mixture,” said Danbury Mayor Mark Boughton. “We want to encourage full-blown development. We may be loosening the regulations.”
Andrea Gartner, executive director of CityCenter Danbury, said Danbury has to rediscover its heart.
“The downtown contributes to the wellness and health of the region,” Gartner said.
Make sure to read the entire piece at the Patch. The article provides a good history on the chain of events that resulted with the increase of entertainment establishments along Mill Plain Road in the last 5 years.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Sarah Richardson Giveaway!
With the first season of Sarah 101 wrapped up, what better way to celebrate than having a Sarah & Tommy giveaway! And its a doozy - enter for your chance to win a Sarah Richardson Designer Palette by Para Paints fan deck personally signed by Sarah and Tommy! Awesome, right?!
Here's how you can win:
- Receive one entry for leaving a comment below.
- Receive one entry for becoming a follower; leave a separate comment below to let me know. If you're already a follower, leave a comment below.
- Receive one entry if you tweet about the giveaway. Make sure to include my twitter @ramblingreno so I can keep track.
The contest is open to Canadian and US residents. You have until 10pm EST April 3rd to enter. The winner will be drawn from all entries using Random.org and announced on April 4th. Good luck!!
Sarah 101: Gabe's City Condo
To celebrate the end of the first season of Sarah 101, I have a FANTASTIC GIVEAWAY!! More on that in my next post!
In this week’s episode, Sarah and Tommy take a blank slate of a condo and inject it with a serious sense of style. Starting with the jumping off point – a monochromatic black, white, and grey decorating scheme – Sarah and Tommy mix it up using vintage and modern pieces.
A large round vintage glass table is used to anchor the dining area. The round table is best for a small space; it allows for flow and circulation and provides flexible seating options. Paired with acrylic chairs and a sleek and airy chandelier, the glass table doesn’t feel heavy or too big in this combined living-dining space.
Tips from the show:
- For professional looking framed photographs, pair ready-made frames with custom-cut mats
- Looking to reupholster a vintage piece? Make sure its sturdy, free of wobbles, and check the original manufacturer’s label as an indication of quality
- Black & white schemes can be harsh and high contrast. Mix them with less severe grey tones.
- The key to a great DIY is knowing what to do yourself and what to hire a pro for (for example, getting a DIY canvas professionally stretched and framed)
- Use black as an accent and not as the main colour in a monochromatic scheme
- Too many black & white fabric patterns can be overpowering. Balance the look with lots of solids.
I think this was my favourite episode of the whole season! It certainly didn’t look like a budget makeover and felt suited to the homeowner. I thought it had just the right mix of vintage and new pieces. What did you think? Did you enjoy the series?
Smash and grabs on the rise
Danbury Police said two Subway Restaurants, one on Padanaram Road and one on Germantown Road were both burglarized over the last week.
[...]
"I know we've been hit pretty bad," said Danbury Police Spokesman, Capt. Thomas Wendel. He didn't know how many other commercial establishments had been burglarized, but he said the city is experiencing a number of them right now.
Danbury's experiencing a alarming spike in burglaries ranging from several robberies of commercial and family owned establishments, to the recent break-ins by people who are targeting the Indian community.
Chili madness!!!
Last Sunday, food fanatics packed Two Steps Downtown Grille to cheer on their favorite ammeter chef at the fifth annual Chili-Cook Off.
This year, I decided to stop by the popular event and witness the madness first-hand…
Where is Mark Boughton's anti-immigrant BFF?
Mark Boughton and Steve Levy during happier times. Mayors and County Executives for Immigration Reform press conference, City Hall 12.08.05
Seems like Suffolk County Executive Steve Levy is no where to be found.
Levy, along with Mark Boughton, co-founded the anti-immigrant group Mayors and County Executives for Immigration Reform, recently announced that he would not seek a third term in office amid a 16 month investigation into his campaign fundraising practices.
CBS New York, March 24:
Suffolk County Executive Steve Levy says he will not seek a third term and voluntarily turned over about $4 million in campaign funds to the district attorney following a 16-month investigation.
[...]
Levy, who unsuccessfully ran for governor in 2010, made the stunning announcement Thursday afternoon in a press release.
In the statement, Levy said he had “been blessed” by being able to work as a public servant for 25 years. He said his decision “was not made lightly,” adding that “long hours, tough decisions, grueling debates, family sacrifices” have made him “look to new challenges.”
District Attorney Thomas Spota said a 16-month investigation by the Government Corruption Bureau “revealed serious issues with regard to fundraising and the manner in which it was conducted, including the use of public resources.”
As Boughton's anti-immigrant BFF, Levy is no stranger to controversy when it comes to the topic of immigration but his AWOL status has several in Suffolk Country concerned.
CBS New York March 29:
Has Steve Levy gone into hiding? Several days after the embattled Suffolk County Executive announced he would not seek re-election amid an ongoing campaign fundraising investigation, the question remains…where is Levy?
[...]
A move that has legislator John Cooper question Levy’s timing.
“This is not the time for us to have an absent county executive so my hope is after the next few days the county executive will come back, collect himself and get back to doing the peoples’ business,” said Cooper.
Cooper is not calling for Levy to resign amid all the controversy, but he’s hopeful that if the controversy becomes too much of a distraction the county executive will, as Cooper told WCBS 880, do the right thing for the county.
“I remain concerned about how that’s going to – long term – affect the ability of Steve Levy to lead,” said Cooper.
Fundraising controversy? It seems like Boughton and Levy have more in common besides their anti-immigrant stance.
Ridgefield Republican Town Committee=No Class
It’s unfortunate our publicly elected officials, whether at the podium or in the audience, are politically unable to encourage if not require the need for basic courtesies during public meetings. So, what they didn’t say, I will.
I was embarrassed, ashamed & disheartened by the boorish behavior of so many at Representative Himes' Town Hall Budget Meeting last night. Lies, erroneous stats, & partial truths were championed as gospel by many opposing what is going on in our government, yet when Rep Himes wanted to respond to the comments, he was interrupted, spoken over & wasn't respected enough by them to even listen to his clarification, correction, or his perspective on the subject.
One needn’t agree with any of what our congressman has done or stands for, but there is a certain decorum that should override the grandstanding and pontificating exhibited last night. There were many of us that DID want to hear what Rep. Himes had to say but were unable to do so because of disruptive & rude behavior.
To Rep Himes’ credit, he remained interested, engaged, calm & respectful- even of the louts in attendance. Thank you Rep Himes for taking the time to share your knowledge & perspective on where we are & how we can move forward. No rose colored glasses here- Just the truth- We all must share the pain & we must manage the debt such that it doesn't corrupt the forward momentum & financial correction we are seeing- Thank you for your measured approach.
Another Ives Street business closes it's doors?
Allen Ginsberg: Plutonian Ode
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Tokyo Electric Power Co. workers collect data in the control room for Unit 1 and Unit 2 at the tsunami-crippled Fukushima Dai-ichi nuclear power plant in Okumamachi, Fukushima Prefecture, Japan, Wednesday, March 23, 2011: photo by AP/Nuclear and Industrial Safety Agency
What new element before us unborn in nature? Is there a new thing under the Sun?
At last inquisitive Whitman a modern epic, detonative, Scientific theme
First penned unmindful by Doctor Seaborg with poisonous hand, named for Death's planet through the sea beyond Uranus
whose chthonic ore fathers this magma-teared Lord of Hades, Sire of avenging Furies, billionaire Hell-King worshipped once
with black sheep throats cut, priest's face averted from underground mysteries in single temple at Eleusis,
Spring-green Persephone nuptialed to his inevitable Shade, Demeter mother of asphodel weeping dew,
her daughter stored in salty caverns under white snow, black hail, grey winter rain or Polar ice, immemorable seasons before
Fish flew in Heaven, before a Ram died by the starry bush, before the Bull stamped sky and earth
or Twins inscribed their memories in clay or Crab'd flood
washed memory from the skull, or Lion sniffed the lilac breeze in Eden --
Before the Great Year began turning its twelve signs, ere constellations wheeled for twenty-four thousand sunny years
slowly round their axis in Sagittarius, one hundred sixty-seven thousand times returning to this night
Radioactive Nemesis were you there at the beginning black dumb tongueless unsmelling blast of Disillusion?
I manifest your Baptismal Word after four billion years
I guess your birthday in Earthling Night, I salute your dreadful presence last majestic as the Gods,
Sabaot, Jehova, Astapheus, Adonaeus, Elohim, Iao, Ialdabaoth, Aeon from Aeon born ignorant in an Abyss of Light,
Sophia's reflections glittering thoughtful galaxies, whirlpools of starspume silver-thin as hairs of Einstein!
Father Whitman I celebrate a matter that renders Self oblivion!
Grand Subject that annihilates inky hands & pages' prayers, old orators' inspired Immortalities,
I begin your chant, openmouthed exhaling into spacious sky over silent mills at Hanford, Savannah River, Rocky Flats, Pantex, Burlington, Albuquerque
I yell thru Washington, South Carolina, Colorado,Texas, Iowa, New Mexico,
Where nuclear reactors create a new Thing under the Sun, where Rockwell war-plants fabricate this death stuff trigger in nitrogen baths,
Hanger-Silas Mason assembles the terrified weapon secret by ten thousands, & where Manzano Mountain boasts to store
its dreadful decay through two hundred forty millenia while our Galaxy spirals around its nebulous core.
I enter your secret places with my mind, I speak with your presence, I roar your Lion Roar with mortal mouth.
One microgram inspired to one lung, ten pounds of heavy metal dust adrift slow motion over grey Alps
the breadth of the planet, how long before your radiance speeds blight and death to sentient beings?
Enter my body or not I carol my spirit inside you, Unapproachable Weight,
O heavy heavy Element awakened I vocalize your consciousness to six worlds
I chant your absolute Vanity. Yeah monster of Anger birthed in fear O most
Ignorant matter ever created unnatural to Earth! Delusion of metal empires!
Destroyer of lying Scientists! Devourer of covetous Generals, Incinerator of Armies & Melter of Wars!
Judgement of judgements, Divine Wind over vengeful nations, Molester of Presidents, Death-Scandal of Capital politics! Ah civilizations stupidly industrious!
Canker-Hex on multitudes learned or illiterate! Manufactured Spectre of human reason! O solidified imago of practitioner in Black Arts
I dare your reality, I challenge your very being! I publish your cause and effect!
I turn the wheel of Mind on your three hundred tons! Your name enters mankind's ear! I embody your ultimate powers!
My oratory advances on your vaunted Mystery! This breath dispels your braggart fears! I sing your form at last
behind your concrete & iron walls inside your fortress of rubber & translucent silicon shields in filtered cabinets and baths of lathe oil,
My voice resounds through robot glove boxes & ignot cans and echoes in electric vaults inert of atmosphere,
I enter with spirit out loud into your fuel rod drums underground on soundless thrones and beds of lead
O density! This weightless anthem trumpets transcendent through hidden chambers and breaks through iron doors into the Infernal Room!
Over your dreadful vibration this measured harmony floats audible, these jubilant tones are honey and milk and wine-sweet water
Poured on the stone black floor, these syllables are barley groats I scatter on the Reactor's core,
I call your name with hollow vowels, I psalm your Fate close by, my breath near deathless ever at your side
to Spell your destiny, I set this verse prophetic on your mausoleum walls to seal you up Eternally with Diamond Truth! O doomed Plutonium.
A Tokyo Electric Power Co. worker looks at gauges in the control room for Unit 1 and Unit 2 at the tsunami-crippled Fukushima Dai-ichi nuclear power plant in Okumamachi, Fukushima Prefecture, Japan, Wednesday, March 23, 2011: photo by AP/Nuclear and Industrial Safety Agency
Workers in protective suits conduct cooling operation by spraying water at the damaged No. 4 unit of the Fukushima Dai-ichi nuclear complex in Okumamachi, northeastern Japan,Tuesday, March 22, 2011: photo by Tokyo Electric Power Co, (TEPCO)
Allen Ginsberg: Plutonian Ode, 14 July, 1978 (excerpt)Jorge Luis Borges: Borges y Yo / Borges and I
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Self-Portrait with Eyeshade: Jean-Baptiste-Siméon Chardin, 1775 (Musée du Louvre, Paris)
Spinoza knew that all things long to persist in their being; the stone eternally wants to be a stone and the tiger a tiger. I shall remain in Borges, not in myself (if it is true that I am someone), but I recognize myself less in his books than in many others' or in the laborious strumming of a guitar. Years ago I tried to free myself from him and went from the mythologies of the suburbs to the games with time and infinity, but those games belong to Borges now and I shall have to imagine other things. Thus my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him.
I do not know which of us has written this page.
Self-Portrait: Samuel Palmer, 1825 (Ashmolean Museum, Oxford)
Al otro, a Borges, es a quien le ocurren las cosas. Yo camino por Buenos Aires y me demoro, acaso ya mecánicamente, para mirar el arco de un zaguán y la puerta cancel; de Borges tengo noticias por el correo y veo su nombre en una terna de profesores o en un diccionario biográfico. Me gustan los relojes de arena, los mapas, la tipografía del siglo XVII, las etimologías, el sabor del café y la prosa de Stevenson; el otro comparte esas preferencias, pero de un modo vanidoso que las convierte en atributos de un actor. Sería exagerado afirmar que nuestra relación es hostil; yo vivo, yo me dejo vivir para que Borges pueda tramar su literatura y esa literatura me justifica. Nada me cuesta confesar que ha logrado ciertas páginas válidas, pero esas páginas no me pueden salvar, quizá porque lo bueno ya no es de nadie, ni siquiera del otro, sino del lenguaje o la tradición. Por lo demás, yo estoy destinado a perderme, definitivamente, y sólo algún instante de mí podrá sobrevivir en el otro. Poco a poco voy cediéndole todo, aunque me consta su perversa costumbre de falsear y magnificar. Spinoza entendió que todas las cosas quieren perseverar en su ser; la piedra eternamente quiere ser piedra y el tigre un tigre. Yo he de quedar en Borges, no en mí (si es que alguien soy), pero me reconozco menos en sus libros que en muchos otros o que en el laborioso rasgueo de una guitarra. Hace años yo traté de librarme de él y pasé de las mitologías del arrabal a los juegos con el tiempo y con lo infinito, pero esos juegos son de Borges ahora y tendré que idear otras cosas. Así mi vida es una fuga y todo lo pierdo y todo es del olvido, o del otro.
No sé cuál de los dos escribe esta página.
Self-Portrait: Jean-Baptiste Camille Corot, c. 1825 (Musée du Louvre, Paris)
Jorge Luis Borges: Borges y Yo / Borges and I, from El Hacedor (The Maker), 1960, translator unknown
Jorge Luis Borges: El Evangelio según Marcos / The Gospel According to Mark
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These events took place on the Los Álamos cattle ranch, towards the south of the township of Junín, over the last days of March, 1928. The protagonist was a medical student, Baltasar Espinosa. We may describe him for now as no different to any of the many young men of Buenos Aires, with no particular traits worthy of note other than an almost unlimited kindness and an oratorical faculty that had earned him several prizes from the English school in Ramos Mejía. He did not like to argue; he preferred it when his interlocutor was right and not he. Although the vagaries of chance in any game fascinated him, he was a poor player because it did not please him to win. His wide intelligence was undirected; at thirty-three years of age, the completion of one last subject stood in the way of his graduation, despite its being his favourite. His father, who like all gentlemen of his day was a freethinker, had instructed him in the doctrines of Herbert Spencer, but his mother, before setting out on a trip to Montevideo, requested of him that every night he say the Lord’s Prayer and make the sign of the cross. Over the years, not once had he broken this promise.
He did not lack in courage; one morning he had traded, more out of indifference rather than wrath, two or three blows with a group of fellow students who were trying to force him into taking part in a university demonstration. He abounded in questionable opinions, or habits of mind, from a spirit of acquiescence: his country mattered less to him than the risk that in other parts they might believe that we continue to wear feathers like the Indians; he venerated France but despised the French; he had little respect for Americans, but he approved of there being skyscrapers in Buenos Aires; he thought that the gauchos of the plains were better horsemen than those of the hills or mountain ranges. When his cousin Daniel invited him to summer in Los Álamos, he accepted immediately, not so much because he liked the country, but more out of his natural geniality and his not having found a valid reason for saying no.
The ranch’s main house was large and somewhat run-down; the foreman, who was known as Gutre, had his quarters close by. The Gutres were three: the father, the son (who was particularly uncouth) and a girl of uncertain paternity. They were tall, strong and bony, with Indian facial features and hair that tinged red. They hardly spoke. The foreman’s wife had died years ago.
In the country, Espinosa was learning things that he had not known, nor suspected. For example, that one need not gallop when approaching a house, and that no one goes out riding a horse unless there is a job to be done. In time, he would come to distinguish the birds by their calls.
Early on, Daniel had to absent himself and leave for the capital in order to close a deal involving some livestock. In all, the business would take him about a week. Espinosa, who was already a little tired of hearing about his cousin’s good fortune with women and his tireless interest in the variations of men’s fashion, preferred to remain on the ranch with his textbooks. The heat was suffocating and not even the night brought relief. One morning at daybreak, thunder woke him. The wind was rocking the casuarinas. Espinosa heard the first drops of rain and gave thanks to God. All of a sudden, the cold air rolled in. That afternoon, the Salado overflowed.
The next day, as he was looking over the flooded fields from his porch, Baltasar Espinosa thought that the standard metaphor which compared the pampas with the sea was not, at least that morning, completely false, even though Hudson had noted that the sea appears to us much wider because we see it from a ship’s deck and not from horseback or eye level. The rain did not let up; the Gutres, helped or hindered by the city dweller, saved a good part of the livestock, though many animals drowned. The paths that led to the station were four: all were covered in water. On the third day, a leaking roof threatened the foreman’s house and Espinosa gave them a room out back by the toolshed. The move had brought them closer; they ate together in the large dining room. Conversation was difficult; the Gutres, who knew so much about the country, did not know how to explain any of it. One night, Espinosa asked them if people still retained some memory of the Indian raids from when the frontier’s military command was in Junín. They told him that they did, but they would have answered in a similar fashion had the question been about Charles the First’s beheading. Espinosa recalled his father’s saying that almost all the cases of longevity cited from the country are a result of poor memory or a vague notion of dates. The gauchos tended to forget in equal measure the year of their birth and the name of who fathered them.
No reading material was to be found in the entire house other than some issues of the magazine The Farm, a veterinary manual, a deluxe edition of the Uruguayan epic Tabaré, a History of Shorthorn Cattle in Argentina, the odd erotic or detective story and a recent novel, Don Segundo Sombra. In order to liven up in some way the inevitable after-dinner conversation, Espinosa read a couple of the novel’s chapters to the Gutres, who were all illiterate. Unfortunately, like the book’s hero, the foreman had been a cattle drover himself and was not interested in the happenings of another. He said the work was easy, that they took with them a pack mule which carried all that they needed, and that if he had not been a cattle drover, he would never have seen Lake Gómez, he would never have gotten to the town of Bragado, nor would he have visited the Núñez ranch in Chabachuco. In the kitchen was a guitar; before the events I am narrating happened, the labourers would sit in a circle and someone would tune the instrument without ever getting around to playing it. This they called a guitar jam.
Espinosa, who had left his beard to grow, had begun to pause before the mirror to study his changed face, and he smiled at the thought of boring the boys in Buenos Aires with his tale of the Salado’s overflowing. Curiously, he was missing places to which he had never been and would never go: a street corner on Cabrera where a mailbox stood; some cement lions on a porch a few blocks from the Plaza del Once on Jujuy; a barroom with a tiled floor whose exact whereabouts he was not sure of. As for his brothers and his father, through Daniel they would have learnt already that he was isolated -- the word, etymologically, was accurate -- by the floodwaters.
Looking through the house whilst still hemmed in by the waters, he came across a Bible in English. In its last pages, the Guthries -- such was their original name -- had left a record of their family history. They were originally from Inverness, had come to the New World, no doubt as labourers, in the early days of the nineteenth century and had intermarried with Indians. The chronicle broke off sometime during the eighteen-seventies when they no longer knew how to write. Within only a few generations, they had forgotten their English; by the time Espinosa met them, even Spanish was troubling them. They had no faith, but in their blood there endured, like a dim current, the harsh fanaticism of the Calvinists and the superstitions of the pampas. Espinosa told them of his find and they barely acknowledged it.
Leafing through the volume, his fingers opened it at the start of the Gospel according to Mark. As an exercise in translation and perhaps to see if the Gutres would understand any of it, he decided to read to them the text after dinner. Their attentive listening and their mute interest surprised him. Maybe the gold letters on the the cover lent the book more authority. "It’s in their blood," Espinosa thought. It also occurred to him that man has throughout history told and retold two stories: that of a lost ship that searches the seas of the Mediterranean for a dearly loved island, and that of a god who allows himself to be crucified in Golgotha. Remembering his elocution classes in Ramos Mejía, Espinosa rose to his feet to preach the parables.
In the days that followed, the Gutres wolfed down the barbecued meat and sardines so as to arrive sooner at the Gospel.
A little pet lamb that the girl had adorned with a sky-blue ribbon had injured itself on some barbed wire. To staunch the bleeding, the Gutres were wanting to apply cobwebs; Espinosa treated it with some pills instead. The gratitude that this treatment inspired took him aback. At first, he distrusted the Gutres and had hidden in one of his books the two hundred and forty pesos that he had with him; now, with the owner away, he had taken on Daniel’s role and was giving timid orders that were being followed immediately. The Gutres would trail him through the rooms and along the porch as if they were lost without him. Whilst reading to them, he noticed that they would take away with them the crumbs that he had left on the table. One evening, he caught them unawares as they were, in few words, speaking of him respectfully.
Upon finishing the Gospel according to Mark, he wanted to read one of the three remaining gospels; the father, though, asked him to repeat the one he had already read to them so that they could understand it better. Espinosa felt that they were like children, who prefer repetition over variety or novelty. That night he dreamt, not altogether surprisingly, of the Flood and was awoken by the hammering that went into the Ark’s construction, which he supposed he had confused with the thunder. In fact, the rain, after having abated, was getting heavier. The cold was bitter. The Gutres had told him that the storm had damaged the toolshed’s roof and that, once they had repaired the beams, they would show him where. No longer a stranger, they treated him with special attention, almost spoiling him. Not one of them liked coffee, but they always had a little cup for him that they heaped with sugar.
The storm hit on a Tuesday. Thursday night he was awoken by a light knock on the door, which, because of his misgivings, he always kept locked. He got up and opened it: it was the girl. In the darkness he could not make her out, but he could tell from her footsteps that she was barefoot, and later in bed, that she had come naked from the back of the house. She did not embrace him, nor did she speak a single word; she lay beside him and shivered. It was the first time she had lain with a man. When she left, she did not kiss him; Espinosa realised he did not even know her name. For some sentimental reason that he did not attempt to understand, he swore never to tell anyone in Buenos Aires about the incident.
The next day began like the others before, except for the father’s speaking to Espinosa and asking him if Christ had allowed Himself to be killed in order to save all mankind. Espinosa, who was a freethinker but felt obliged to justify what he had read to them, replied, “Yes. To save us all from hell.”
Gutre then asked, “What’s hell?”
“A place underground where souls burn and burn.”
“And those that drove in the nails were also saved?”
“Yes,” replied Espinosa, whose theology was a little shaky.
He had feared that the foreman would demand an account of what had happened the night before with his daughter. After lunch, they asked him to read the last chapters again.
Espinosa took a long siesta, though his light sleep was interrupted by persistent hammering and vague premonitions. Toward evening he got up and went out to the porch. He said, as if thinking out loud, “The waters are low. It won’t be long now.”
“It won’t be long now,” repeated Gutre like an echo.
The three Gutres had been following him. Kneeling on the floor, they asked for his blessing. Then they cursed him, spat on him and shoved him to the back of the house. The girl was crying. Espinosa knew what to expect on the other side of the door. When they opened it, he saw the heavens. A bird shrieked. ‘A goldfinch,’ he thought. The shed was without a roof; they had torn out the beams to build the cross.
El Campo II, Ciudad be Junín, Buenos Aires, Argentina: photo by Spender, 2007
El hecho sucedió en la estancia Los Álamos, en el partido de Junín, hacia el sur, en los últimos días del mes de marzo de 1928. Su protagonista fue un estudiante de medicina, Baltasar Espinosa. Podemos definirlo por ahora como uno de tantos muchachos porteños, sin otros rasgos dignos de nota que esa facultad oratoria que le había hecho merecer más de un premio en el colegio inglés de Ramos Mejía y que una casi ilimitada bondad. No le gustaba discutir; prefería que el interlocutor tuviera razón y no él. Aunque los azares del juego le interesaban, era un mal jugador, porque le desagradaba ganar. Su abierta inteligencia era perezosa; a los treinta y tres años le faltaba rendir una materia para graduarse, la que más lo atraía. Su padre, que era librepensador, como todos los señores de su época, lo había instruido en la doctrina de Herbert Spencer, pero su madre, antes de un viaje a Montevideo, le pidió que todas las noches rezara el Padrenuestro e hiciera la señal de la cruz. A lo largo de los años no había quebrado nunca esa promesa. No carecía de coraje; una mañana había cambiado, con más indiferencia que ira, dos o tres puñetazos con un grupo de compañeros que querían forzarlo a participar en una huelga universitaria. Abundaba, por espíritu de aquiescencia, en opiniones o hábitos discutibles: el país le importaba menos que el riesgo de que en otras partes creyeran que usamos plumas; veneraba a Francia pero menospreciaba a los franceses; tenía en poco a los americanos, pero aprobaba el hecho de que hubiera rascacielos en Buenos Aires; creía que los gauchos de la llanura son mejores jinetes que los de las cuchillas o los cerros. Cuando Daniel, su primo, le propuso veranear en Los Álamos, dijo inmediatamente que sí, no porque le gustara el campo sino por natural complacencia y porque no buscó razones válidas para decir que no.
El casco de la estancia era grande y un poco abandonado; las dependencias del capataz, que se llamaba Gutre, estaban muy cerca. Los Gutres eran tres: el padre, el hijo, que era singularmente tosco, y una muchacha de incierta paternidad. Eran altos, fuertes, huesudos, de pelo que tiraba a rojizo y de caras aindiadas. Casi no hablaban. La mujer del capataz había muerto hace años.
Espinosa, en el campo, fue aprendiendo cosas que no sabía y que no sospechaba. Por ejemplo, que no hay que galopar cuando uno se está acercando a las casas y que nadie sale a andar a caballo sino para cumplir con una tarea. Con el tiempo llegaría a distinguir los pájaros por el grito.
A los pocos días, Daniel tuvo que ausentarse a la capital para cerrar una operación de animales. A lo sumo, el negocio le tomaría una semana. Espinosa, que ya estaba un poco harto de las bonnes fortunes de su primo y de su infatigable interés por las variaciones de la sastrería, prefirió quedarse en la estancia, con sus libros de texto. El calor apretaba y ni siquiera la noche traía un alivio. En el alba, los truenos lo despertaron. El viento zamarreaba las casuarinas. Espinosa oyó las primeras gotas y dio gracias a Dios. El aire frío vino de golpe. Esa tarde, el Salado se desbordó.
Al otro día, Baltasar Espinosa, mirando desde la galería los campos anegados, pensó que la metáfora que equipara la pampa con el mar no era, por lo menos esa mañana, del todo falsa, aunque Hudson había dejado escrito que el mar nos parece más grande, porque lo vemos desde la cubierta del barco y no desde el caballo o desde nuestra altura. La lluvia no cejaba; los Gutres, ayudados o incomodados por el pueblero, salvaron buena parte de la hacienda, aunque hubo muchos animales ahogados. Los caminos para llegar a la estancia eran cuatro: a todos los cubrieron las aguas. Al tercer día, una gotera amenazó la casa del capataz; Espinosa les dio una habitación que quedaba en el fondo, al lado del galpón de las herramientas. La mudanza los fue acercando; comían juntos en el gran comedor. El diálogo resultaba difícil; los Gutres, que sabían tantas cosas en materia de campo, no sabían explicarlas. Una noche, Espinosa les preguntó si la gente guardaba algún recuerdo de los malones, cuando la comandancia estaba en Junín. Le dijeron que sí, pero lo mismo hubieran contestado a una pregunta sobre la ejecución de Carlos Primero. Espinosa recordó que su padre solía decir que casi todos los casos de longevidad que se dan en el campo son casos de mala memoria o de un concepto vago de las fechas. Los gauchos suelen ignorar por igual el año en que nacieron y el nombre de quien los engendró.
En toda la casa no había otros libros que una serie de la revista La Chacra, un manual de veterinaria, un ejemplar de lujo del Tabaré, una Historia del Shorthorn en la Argentina, unos cuantos relatos eróticos o policiales y una novela reciente: Don Segundo Sombra. Espinosa, para distraer de algún modo la sobremesa inevitable, leyó un par de capítulos a los Gutres, que eran analfabetos. Desgraciadamente, el capataz había sido tropero y no le podían importar las andanzas de otro. Dijo que ese trabajo era liviano, que llevaban siempre un carguero con todo lo que se precisa y que, de no haber sido tropero, no habría llegado nunca hasta la Laguna de Gómez, hasta el Bragado y hasta los campos de los Núñez, en Chacabuco. En la cocina había una guitarra; los peones, antes de los hechos que narro, se sentaban en rueda; alguien la templaba y no llegaba nunca a tocar. Esto se llamaba una guitarreada.
Espinosa, que se había dejado crecer la barba, solía demorarse ante el espejo para mirar su cara cambiada y sonreía al pensar que en Buenos Aires aburriría a los muchachos con el relato de la inundación del Salado. Curiosamente, extrañaba lugares a los que no iba nunca y no iría: una esquina de la calle Cabrera en la que hay un buzón, unos leones de mampostería en un portón de la calle Jujuy, a unas cuadras del Once, un almacén con piso de baldosa que no sabía muy bien dónde estaba. En cuanto a sus hermanos y a su padre, ya sabrían por Daniel que estaba aislado -- la palabra, etimológicamente, era justa -- por la creciente.
Explorando la casa, siempre cercada por las aguas, dio con una Biblia en inglés. En las páginas finales los Guthrie -- tal era su nombre genuino -- habían dejado escrita su historia. Eran oriundos de Inverness, habían arribado a este continente, sin duda como peones, a principios del siglo diecinueve, y se habían cruzado con indios. La crónica cesaba hacia mil ochocientos setenta y tantos; ya no sabían escribir. Al cabo de unas pocas generaciones habían olvidado el inglés; el castellano, cuando Espinosa los conoció, les daba trabajo. Carecían de fe, pero en su sangre perduraban, como rastros oscuros, el duro fanatismo del calvinista y las supersticiones del pampa. Espinosa les habló de su hallazgo y casi no escucharon.
Hojeó el volumen y sus dedos lo abrieron en el comienzo del Evangelio según Marcos. Para ejercitarse en la traducción y acaso para ver si entendían algo, decidió leerles ese texto después de la comida. Le sorprendió que lo escucharan con atención y luego con callado interés. Acaso la presencia de las letras de oro en la tapa le diera más autoridad. Lo llevan en la sangre, pensó. También se le ocurrió que los hombres, a lo largo del tiempo, han repetido siempre dos historias: la de un bajel perdido que busca por los mares mediterráneos una isla querida, y la de un dios que se hace crucificar en el Gólgota. Recordó las clases de elocución en Ramos Mejía y se ponía de pie para predicar las parábolas.
Los Gutres despachaban la carne asada y las sardinas para no demorar el Evangelio.
Una corderita que la muchacha mimaba y adornaba con una cintita celeste se lastimó con un alambrado de púa. Para parar la sangre, querían ponerle una telaraña; Espinosa la curó con unas pastillas. La gratitud que esa curación despertó no dejó de asombrarlo. Al principio, había desconfiado de los Gutres y había escondido en uno de sus libros los doscientos cuarenta pesos que llevaba consigo; ahora, ausente el patrón, él había tomado su lugar y daba órdenes tímidas, que eran inmediatamente acatadas. Los Gutres lo seguían por las piezas y por el corredor, como si anduvieran perdidos. Mientras leía, notó que le retiraban las migas que él había dejado sobre la mesa. Una tarde los sorprendió hablando de él con respeto y pocas palabras. Concluido el Evangelio según Marcos, quiso leer otro de los tres que faltaban; el padre le pidió que repitiera el que ya había leído, para entenderlo bien. Espinosa sintió que eran como niños, a quienes la repetición les agrada más que la variación o la novedad. Una noche soñó con el Diluvio, lo cual no es de extrañar; los martillazos de la fabricación del arca lo despertaron y pensó que acaso eran truenos. En efecto, la lluvia, que había amainado, volvió a recrudecer. El frío era intenso. Le dijeron que el temporal había roto el techo del galpón de las herramientas y que iban a mostrárselo cuando estuvieran arregladas las vigas. Ya no era un forastero y todos lo trataban con atención y casi lo mimaban. A ninguno le gustaba el café, pero había siempre un tacita para él, que colmaban de azúcar.
El temporal ocurrió un martes. El jueves a la noche lo recordó un golpecito suave en la puerta que, por las dudas, él siempre cerraba con llave. Se levantó y abrió: era la muchacha. En la oscuridad no la vio, pero por los pasos notó que estaba descalza y después, en el lecho, que había venido desde el fondo, desnuda. No lo abrazó, no dijo una sola palabra; se tendió junto a él y estaba temblando. Era la primera vez que conocía a un hombre. Cuando se fue, no le dio un beso; Espinosa pensó que ni siquiera sabía cómo se llamaba. Urgido por una íntima razón que no trató de averiguar, juró que en Buenos Aires no le contaría a nadie esa historia.
El día siguiente comenzó como los anteriores, salvo que el padre habló con Espinosa y le preguntó si Cristo se dejó matar para salvar a todos los hombres. Espinosa, que era librepensador pero que se vio obligado a justificar lo que les había leído, le contestó:
-- Sí. Para salvar a todos del infierno.
Gutre le dijo entonces:
-- ¿Qué es el infierno?
-- Un lugar bajo tierra donde las ánimas arderán y arderán.
-- ¿Y también se salvaron los que le clavaron los clavos?
-- Sí -- replicó Espinosa, cuya teología era incierta.
Había temido que el capataz le exigiera cuentas de lo ocurrido anoche con su hija. Después del almuerzo, le pidieron que releyera los últimos capítulos. Espinosa durmió una siesta larga, un leve sueño interrumpido por persistentes martillos y por vagas premoniciones. Hacia el atardecer se levantó y salió al corredor. Dijo como si pensara en voz alta:
-- Las aguas están bajas. Ya falta poco.
-- Ya falta poco -- repitió Gutrel, como un eco.
Los tres lo habían seguido. Hincados en el piso de piedra le pidieron la bendición. Después lo maldijeron, lo escupieron y lo empujaron hasta el fondo. La muchacha lloraba. Espinosa entendió lo que le esperaba del otro lado de la puerta. Cuando la abrieron, vio el firmamento. Un pájaro gritó; pensó: es un jilguero. El galpón estaba sin techo; habían arrancado las vigas para construir la Cruz.
Ataredecer en el campo, Junín, Argentina: photo by Germanramos, 2007