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H and decided that I will start a book on Dante. ***

Q erhaps all these texts deserve to other air captives, another way to get caught. Sometimes choking me the idea that the texts have been incomplete, crudely executed, sadly discharges. And that's just our fault, the scribe, I mean, not the text that had sprung sprang or better in other hands. But there is no artistic creation in tandem and, rather, so the combined composition is always ahead with suspicion, because everyone who believes he knows in advance that loneliness is the indispensable condition, the site of the apparitions Talent or what possesses a unique feel when typing. Texts
captives, at the end of the day, White rescued unsatisfactorily. Is that guilt and punishment of the writer, which is not certain what would become of that idea in another person or what would have happened if his ideas had been transferred to other, better equipped, more intelligent and gifted, "we would be better why?

***

E 're days when we get a packet of books on an island, because they always come from an island in the books at a house, buy a different tone. Upon reaching the door, were there hoping volumes The open hand. After taking the appropriate wine glass after the meal, start to open. On the one hand, a book of poems called final version at last, at least to date, An approach to uncertainty, JSM Furthermore, Memories of a bullfighter, Andrés Luque Gago, silk Dura of Juan Peña, Lauda, \u200b\u200bPaul Moreno and To hand deliver, by José Luis García Martín. The method is well known. The books of poems read in the open, especially the first two or three poems that I started. Then glean here and there and if I have not converted any of the poems or verses ever back to read them, unless that appears by chance or by necessity or other reason other than literary. It is for this reason that when I read a book of poems I do it in calm and tranquility, because the verdict is eternal.
something different with the prose. A prose must give another reading time, as its substance so requires. To deliver to hand, JGM, presented diplomas to each of the texts and that surprised me in a journal. I find it difficult to understand this mania for what degree can one put on a day the one and diverse, our host and precipitate? ***

H o could be called the "Text captives" and perhaps would meet with less, but doing more writing. Captivity Cervantes wrote it centuries ago and perhaps Borges left to clear that poetry must dream too much knowledge and Virgil and Dante were persecuted for their work to disappear into the fantasy of being created.

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ablaba with R. H this morning on the social custom of going to a group dinner or lunch, if desired, simply by going out somewhere. No further claim in such acts that want to belong to the customs or habits frequently. It seems this strengthens the weak personality or the vacuum of glad that they have nothing else to do. Now that the fair is held in the city I live, I am very heartened by the failure to attend and share these activities not noisy, obnoxious and vulgar.
Something similar to what the summer brings. Some people notice the slightest ray of sunshine as an excuse to launch their meat at a beach and to notify the other, who take to go, at work or at a meeting of the fair, yes, indeed, go to the beach as if it was any big or significant achievement. So R. stayed with me that an introvert is not strange or if necessary, on the contrary, maintains his credentials alive and fervent, continuous builds of their habits, because they know they are not exhaustible as it is not contemplating a Velazquez or read a passage from Pessoa. I always listen to R. as an attentive pupil, since the affinity is evident in the way of understanding the world.

Is that a virtue indispensable, that he who knows and vehemently overcrowding should never stop, because the vulgar and meekness so wish. Machado disdained the tenor aria from the holes and I think that I despise the deeds of those who want to be noticed without more, of those who believe that their habits should be displayed in public without pudicia or shame. Reading, studying, painting, listening music are among the few activities that rise to the dignity of life, because artistic creation teaches that life can remain beyond ourselves.
is for this reason that one highly values \u200b\u200ba dinner in which dialogue has been meeting the cathedral, which has a rather wanted to be quiet, silent, invisible and have not ruled it useless, because he knows that words must be restrained and thoughtful, and build and build. Anything but the babble of mass gatherings, noise and addled verbal reflection on how this roll a beer or the color of the olives. So I left work with some enthusiasm and thanking R., "although not have told him, "his words, since the talks in the morning, sporadic visits and vicissitudes of everyday, routine face inert and absurd that one daily ambushes that have inadvertently wear. ***

E

light was a sta tomorrow morning. Every morning the world. His reflection was happening with the cadence of a viola da gamba. Smooth their contours, without any lapse in their projection. Static widowhood. ***

A laps Philology. I finished writing, I calibrate the complexity of these sentences, perhaps in haste, I made the newspaper. Because philology seeks to study and offer clear the history of culture, but understood as literacy. I pause to reflect on the complexity of this sentence, the culture as literacy.
first thing I do is to recall a passage from Plato's Phaedo , in Socrates memorable stay in jail. It mainly discusses immortality, but in a recess that is to say that the use of the body is the spirit. That does not matter what substance or the same origin of the body. Well as the supreme principle that explains the action, the action of all that reason tries to understand herself included.
So, no matter the origin of writing and the answer to why someone decides to start writing and keep writing life, what really matters in this is the idea and the determination with which the writer operates his word because in that action or the writer will be trying to get close to it fixing the world and that good or idea source resides.

When that happens, when vision begins to sprout the genius that is the virtue of that silent when it has participated and already holds within itself without any more as every morning the world.

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L eo absorbed devotes pages to George Santayana in Three poets Dante philosophers, Lucretius, Dante, Goethe . With an incisive introduction, Santayana's prose, translated by Ferrater-Mora, "is presented with conviction that reading was the philosopher of Dante's work. These are pages of admiration, but measured and written almost no literary ambition. I find this exercise healthy, clean and sincerely written. Perhaps as the express wishes of its author in the annex attached to the editing and idleness claiming properly understood as a legitimate instrument of creation.
is precisely what substance idleness a newspaper. Because the paper did not repairs in the method and the systematic implementation of this or that slogan. Is anarchic or so should be and grow, as does the idle, which only serves at the whim of one man. The difference, however, between the merely banal and passenger and a newspaper, for example, is in words. Therefore, the majority prefer to rest with manual labor, with distractions that only involve physical exertion if possible. Because physically recovers and goes. But not the words that leave an annotated are marked, incisive, percucientes. At the time, when one becomes about them, read them carefully or uneasiness, felt that there was an awareness that if only you belonged for few minutes, if only a result of the ineffable. However, these words recorded and from idleness, will be after us and say something about who we were and will set out the behaviors and preferences insinuábamos and resignations, life, after all. Is that the difference between a newspaper that just wants to rise up from the idle and one who knows that he is just an idle state of being. There can be no concessions to the word, because we will not restore it anymore when we only remember between the lines.

***

L as evenings are taking the offensive aspect summer. Desperate light on the walls. Air numb. Stifling breath. However, wheat is unrepentant in his body and gold plated pin. What remains serene in the morning when I look at it, pilgrim, fleshing out the light. Wheat, fruit settles on the silent hills edges. There, despite the heat and although it covered his eyes, his being renewed each spring and will once again saying the psalms and will air. Only I will abandon the land only. And it will be soon, before the wheat ceases to be forever in adverbs.

***

O incurs few occasions, but sometimes I am surprised by the finding of words that nourish unexpectedly late. These lines that I bring the newspaper I have read in a book titled God Library and obviously I bought the title, because that idea made me tremble Borges for a few minutes and led me to believe in a god who has a library. A library is a choice and a classification. What would these two patterns for God? In this book, he said, there is a prologue that has its references to the work of philology, so come down in these days when linguists are content to go into some scuffle of little substance or be as autologous or protoprosistas.
volume offers a definition of Funaioli Gino Italian, written in 1950, recently put in writing exactly what that meant idle this afternoon, "Philology is a discipline that wants to return historically spiritual unity of a people through manifestations of his being. "To conduct this work so complex, the scholar has taken off both of being and the spirit and the demonstrations, which left him only what the epidermal surface and gives the word.

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Ka-band advanced development for Simon Bolivar

Venezuela and Belarus will develop joint projects for areas of mathematical modeling and satellite use in the frequency called Ka Banda

experiences binational exchanges established between National Centre for Development and Research in Telecommunications (Cendit), as agency of the MCTI, and Belarusian State University of Radio Electronics and Informatics, based in the city of Minsk, capital of the nation euro-East, ended the first of four phases programmed according to report Freddy Brito, president of Cendit.

explained Brito, who recently returned to Venezuela, a total of eight researchers, after a period of complementary education, who are already using knowledge related to the improvement of industrial prototypes related to the optimization of satellite and model development mathematicians to simulate the propagation of electromagnetic waves in the atmosphere in Venezuela.

This project funded through the Fund MCTI Research and Development Conference (Fidetel) reached an initial complement of approximately 436 technical academic hours, which were distributed over four months in the Belarusian University of Radio Electronics and Informatics, as part of a series of actions which will continue, in order to achieve the technological expertise to further assist in improving the management of telecommunications to social utility, said the researcher.

With the launch of the new phase of cooperation agreement, is expected to complement the knowledge to build the Transmission (Tx) and Receive (Rx) antennas at Ka-band frequency and their mechanical prototypes. To do this, Brown argues that planned to be sent back to three Venezuelan investigators to that university, in order to continue strengthening and enhancing the application of knowledge later estimated by the MCTI and entities involved in the deployment of satellite technology.

Importantly, the progress of investment performance to the successful conclusion of the Belarusian nation on specific projects related to the characteristics of the prototypes for Ka Banda and mathematical modeling, which as a system will be fully compatible with the deployment of satellite Simón Bolívar, in this sense, the Bolivarian Agency for Space Activities (ABAE) actively participate in counseling for a subsequent operation.

should be noted, the Ka band is one that corresponds to the highest operating frequency of Venesat-1, which is possible variety of information management in telecommunications, property that is also known as broadband, and whose property is useful for displaying services of great social impact, such as those associated with telemedicine and tele-education, among others.

These bilateral agreements framed multipolar policy, Venezuela is committed to the possibility of exploring all the benefits and knowledge related to the high frequency of operation, also said Brito.

Thus, the second phase of the agreement will be referred to the documentation and construction of the first prototype in frequency Banda Ka; third is directed towards the development of software (program) for the mathematical modeling of the Venezuelan atmosphere, and the fourth stage will be linked to the development of decoders for receiving devices, including scope.

This strategic move of the agreement, is evidence of the policies implemented by the Bolivarian Government, in order to reduce levels of exclusion of telecommunications services in the nation. Similarly, under the responsibility of our researchers, in order to promote the construction of full sovereignty in telecommunications, with inclusive vision and endogenous development.

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A yer JSM was in Cordoba, but never was. Surrounded by poets, reckless situation. The road looked like a garland, and finally we just hoped the velvet night. Poets always want to spread the word to the end, Desiderio squeegee stone bridges. I was in Cordoba, in the memory of water in an elongated ridge muezzin. Everything went like that time, just below the rock, next to the source of cork.

Yesterday I was on the floor and friendship, because the word being built. And with just name, just to test the handle of a phoneme, can you feel sharp. With one word is enough, with a real word. ***

H ay too intrusive in writing and I doubt sometimes that I am not one of them. Too many outsiders who have forgotten that the word is located at the boundary. The limit is the natural territory of poetry and music. They embrace the qualities of being that are adjacent. For some, words are like loads ineffable never understand, like those constellations that hold the universe and to calibrate the eye at night. We, night night, but a reflection, we hope to put together a harmony that - despite being illegitimate, because it belongs to us, "at least stirs our ephemeral condition.

In Zweig's prose, for instance, there are real natural wonders. His speech seems a fluent route and streams that led to drunk. I read a few pages dedicated to Montaigne. In one of the most fascinating passages, I see that its attachment to the character lies in the separation of society to find itself as universal. That idea seems accurate. The more accurate to what's real in creation. Zweig writes

shocked about the comings and goings of Montaigne in his tower and worship which is his books. The books are not always the readers to be read, but because their presence ensures a dialogue and wait "has not been installed in the tower to be a scholar or a scholar." This statement leads the reader to an interpretation substantial: the books provide the necessary silence, dialogue only when the reader chooses only speak out when we are empty. This relationship is brewing in the need to respond to the readings, begins the entry in the margin reading and writing.

Montaigne spent an intrinsic knowledge of self-figuration, the writer. To be a writer had to set an aesthetic image in its pages, that is, the substance of his books, as noted at the outset. I wanted to show the properties of your being. ***

R eleyendo excerpts from Don Quixote , just one roll in those passages that go unnoticed and silent for the first reading. In those years, philological ecstatic, as he read a beam, only strictly adhered to certain narrative or linguistic characteristics. Truck that custom is to live, because I attend these days more with the statement that it expresante, worth the neologism, although he never said it best concept in better shape. So, to reread the story of Marcela and Chrysostom, I realize that Chrysostom decided it was just buried under the rock where the source of cork in which he saw for the first time, Marcela. The deceased had left other jobs for the abbots and Ambrose, his friend. This passage, lost in memory, rescued by rereading, retrieves the smile of old, that solemn sadness of the lyrics Cervantes, as anyone left in English letters.

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Q ue few pages of prose are buzzing in the memory as music is the best thing that can happen to a novel, and that is what happens to the reader of the works of Javier Marias. There is a hypnotic music that reaches the ability to keep the reader guessing at all intersections and disclaimers. Whatever the theme or topic that addresses the novelist, is a mark on his writing that assimilates the best and new from every known language. And this is no accident in the works of Mary, nor are these lines in English or French truffles and crushes from Balzac and Shakespeare. Is this one reason why this work I found it excellent, because the author has chosen three presences to cause effects on each page, that show with winks and reminiscences, with pages that identify universal echoes. This novel also is the work of an intelligent writer who has refused to make concessions after writing the monumental Your Face Tomorrow, on the contrary, crushes The line continues the trilogy happy to add some aspects novel in its narrative, a fact that extends its qualities into other courses not previously explored, but saved here solvency and teaching. There are memorable paragraphs, of which recalls the best of Heart So White, Tomorrow in the Battle Think on Me or Dark Back of Time and Your Face Tomorrow and, above all, pages that are dedicated for Finally, an insight that connects metaliterary not what we wrote years ago, but with a classical tradition and exemplary, that of Cervantes, or Shakespeare Blazac. I would say even more than metaliterary is metalinguistic, since what you put in is not just solfa capacity and limits of fiction, but of language itself as a vertebra of fiction or time or memory or oblivion

much music in their chapters always begin in the manner of Bernhard, inviting the reader to a feast of the syntax and thus the narrative. The continuous reflections, concessive that are added without agglomeration, the dilemmas and subjunctive times handled as a magician and weaves threaded patches than reality itself can not make clear in a speech clearly. Here is an admired novelist, a writer admired.

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lways S he creído que lo que uno hace al comienzo del día determina el resto del tiempo y que, por ese motivo, hay que tener muy claro que no se puede conceder los inicios a cualquier actividad a no ser que esta sea frugal. Al despertar, nos mostramos, casi instintivamente, abiertos, todavía habitando entre los sueños y la rendición a los sentidos. En ese trance, en la duermevela, no pocas veces puede uno llegar a pensar cosas insospechadas o a escribir algunas líneas que luego necesitan el arreglo de la sintaxis, pero que presentan una sustancia fastuosa y venida del límite. Del límite de la noche y el despertar.

Así las cosas, todas las mañanas del sábado, sea cual sea la tarea que tenga uno encomendada, I can only get out of bed, grab a book and write some lines like these, little or nothing to say over the years, but these strategies require a notice to mariners.

a mop should be a time, use these bands of the day we deliver to other tasks and should be productive. That is the struggle with life, the tireless struggle with that every morning I start from deep an exasperated cry, soundproof, which belies a day and sentence despite their claws on each and weigh on me. Only the mind can overcome this blockade of the vacuum, because all the mechanical and ends in smoke addled in global reminiscent of something not even want. just have to listen to who is retiring or who has been able to stop doing the daily task of work. No longing, desire, nostalgia, rather will drop, although activity has been the lifetime.

On the contrary, the dedication to other disciplines such as art, they offer the back of that interpretation. She is slowly supplanting life to confuse and make it bigger. What seemed to have entered a loop, it is incomprehensible, an abyss just in ourselves. And old age, the highest state of consciousness is, however, the moment you can mourn for the few hours it is to continue rising on Saturday morning and challenge to date and challenge to society and feel vengeful because of the misery of the unrest.

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C s in the music, writers of melody and orchestration writers. The melody, like Mozart, develop a continuous chanting tenuous, but powerful attraction. His verses, for example, are labile units, but sustained by a sublime melodic cadence. For example, Fray Luis. On the other side are those who build a total composition of deep harmonies and contradictory, as Beethoven. They are poets who in all his work reveal an aspiration complete, more eternal, absolutely established by the abyss. Behold JRR or Rilke.

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H has appeared almost without warning, like the dawn. His amarilláceo body identifies it in the fog. It looks like a solemn and silent tears. But the wheat, this morning pure spring wheat, he said, has come to permeate the fields of spikes and celebrate the gods honor fertile. With his dream is still dance anthem, with its anthem persist beyond the eyes. Of all the named, which never delivered. What we never had a presence no air, no sleep was oboe. The land was quiet and retracted the sunrise.

***

H o I am no longer and been more myself than ever.

***

V ariation of a subject without end, life.

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A appeared without warning and left his lap the field spikes. His body amarilláceo of intricate long, addresses the hills I see from the road. It was a siege at night, because you never sensed what was true-breeds. Wheat has issued the stay of the spring and I ingratiated himself with the gods fertile. Spikes, looming cast aside by the wind, shown in the distance, the uniformity of a poem. In a poem which I will never stop unpronounceable trace or sound or hint. It is the relentless inability to make, as does the cosmos in the distance, as does the light in the deep, soundless harmony.

remember the first time I read a biography of Bach, I asked myself that question that goes unnoticed, a biography. It was at that moment, I realized that the biographies are annexes or adjacent to the lived and they never will deposit or closure of any of what was experienced. Beyond any philosophical theory, body detached from the soul, is what we are, because what really matters and never happens to us happens in our life. The brands that will become are mere footprints in the wet sand of our forgetfulness. These geniuses, Bach, Pessoa, Plato, Cervantes, Montaigne would not appear in his works or show clear or decisive influence over them. What we must understand is that these geniuses, so named because of his mysterious life, were the same literature, the music itself. Pessoa is literature. Bach's music. Montaigne's essays, so he wrote. Are these subjects, their preaching.

That is the virtue of the nature and the cycle that do not belong, but we want and we cling. Is the invisibility the membership of which will be a whole while being ever. And that sublime consciousness, so elusive, is the desire and renunciation, at the same time, of life. Be music such as wheat dawned. Be the literature appears to be whispering the air without being noticed.

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E s difficult to find the calm when the day has been an emotion or DRYLAND from morning nothing has had more weight than the air or the rigidity of statues. It's hard not to surrender to meekness and will donate to the blackness of the time. It is difficult, I know, not go back on the misfortune of life and not blame the unrest on this nature so contrary who we are. Because nature is a circularity that begins and ends at the same point. In it, the metamorphosis is possible, since its inception is its conclusion. Not so with what man muses, as we have in mind that the days can not be discounted otherwise lived alone in the memory it escape. And we know the angles of memory. Perhaps that is why

one dares to build some notes on white paper, as white as the blood of dormant silence. Despite this hindrance, one dares to write in the newspaper in search of who knows what time, what colorful rumor may be revealed. For one reveals the reality of their hiding places until it is polished and haggard. So leave it as a vanishing point that spread of the days, hours, noon in the middle of a park. We know nothing of the first syllable and even less of the latter, but we recognize their differences. What happens in the meridian: ourselves.

Our will is finite because we know the final coda. Perhaps only by recognizing some of the circularity, damp soil that will spray fields when we will be more human. Too human. open Library of Apollodorus, perhaps the first book of miscellaneous history. A book in which the greatest puzzle is the identity of its author. An author transparent retracted what collection. Start reading through the sieve of the imagination and the patch.

remains the notebook closed and everything is illusory. Not a hunch to open it, it does not admit the evidence or the momentum without burning in the distance, but within. The notebook closed and a cloister old-looking for birds crossing its columns. Only that, the flight is only that, the passing of a tree branch, a temporary resting place of balance. Only part of creating harmony.

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H nce thought to leave the notebook open on the table and each Once passed near him, writing something, for example, even as you read this now. Leave it as a mirror that was holding what our actions were tacking around, like a pile of notes to natural, evening, unconscious.

The fundamental condition is not paying attention, live as if one had never before written anything rescued from life as if what happened had belonged to a dream, knowing that the dreams will match everything and that this stretch and reconciles all too often with this and the future. An open notebook speculate between what happened and what happens, which will come and what he might have happened. Is not that, itself, memory, I wonder? before left by the wayside among a mountain of books and leave confused, as this life appears confusing subjects I write I do not even recognize. Increasingly

a man believes in the mystery of literature. Can a great connoisseur of the literary use a resource or another, may even know all the public rhetoric and even having read tens of thousands of books, but when you begin typing, you may never write what the literature calls. Never as an insurmountable wall, which condemns him to his true happiness. For the mystery is like a presence innate, instinctive, that the writer he models over the years and redirecting the force of his intelligence. It is fleeting, artificial, we may dwell for a moment and leave us forever.

margins are creating is not subjugated to any discipline, arriving given, such as talent, and come with a naturalness that, if not lived, left in artifice.

Is that what I notice in most books I read: the mystery is forced. Literature is a treacherous statement to the writer, because she tied the great mystery that has one. But this knot can be to own gallows. And the reader must be relentless in what aspires to be and I can not be.

For this reason, wanted to leave pages alone, I wanted to let hidden support that every day I hold the insomniac speech, but necessary, leave me alone to myself, let go of the device. The self is an artifice unnecessary.

The graphomania not be confused with the intensity and the intensity does not understand numbers, is a quality of soul. There are poets who want to use originality to stand out in the campus. Others want to imitate the most beloved poets. Neither one nor the other will find their being. The mystery is individual, absolutely alone, silent, perpetual rhythm and he alone decides who dares to start a poem. If there comes to us, that is, if we do not go out to meet us none of them will occur.

is exactly what he writes in Gaya Silence art: "A desperate art is a contradiction. [...] The art seems to come from afar, going through the man, then discard, get rid of man as a crust, and on. [...] A great work of art is never a conclusion, and promises to be a scientific or philosophical, but a principle that escapes, fleeing, which frees .[...] The operator does not aspire to the word , ie the art, the work, but the silence is clear that a living silence, a silence of life, not death, even dumb, but communicating. Art is not clothing, but bare. "

had left the open notebook on the table, but I decided to close, curtail their whiteness for staying in silence naked and communicating that every artist should belong.

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Report from the Valles del Tuy - Miranda (Venezuela) Banda Ku

Greetings friends, they reported 25 channels (13 FTA) at KU, from the valleys of the Tuy
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Installation Site: Venezuela, Miranda State, Los Valles del Tuy, 25/04/2011


Cua Latitude: 10.50 ° N
(10 ° 30 '0 ")
Length:
-66.91 ° \u200b\u200bE (66 ° 54' 35")
City: The Valle del Tuy

Country: Venezuela


Signal strength:
90 Signal Quality: 80

TP: 11524 V 3000

TP TP TP
11380 H 42351 11505 V 2999 11513 V 3098 TP

25 channels, 13 in FTA.

azimuth angle:
227.09 ° (True North)
Elevation angle: 72.12 °

LNB Tilt: 46.06 °

offset angle: 20.36 °

Distance to satellite: 36048.86 Km

Signal Delay:
240.33 ms (Uplink + Downlink)
decline angle: -1.84 °

The polar angle of the mount: 193.00 °

engine Grades:
13 ° West
The satellite: Simón Bolívar
(78.0 ° W)

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P hink, "after reading the preface to the complete poetic work , AC-, in the condition of the poet.

The poet is an oracle of his work. At first, go blind because the language is only offered in the epidermis and are the factors of sound, rhythm, music that makes it so powerful to succumb to the universe. React as homo ludens before a game of synesthesia and alliteration that drunk. Put a word here, another there, with no intention of rearranging the syntax of life. Is rediscovering a new way of naming that, ultimately, is the vice of creation. Its scope goes slowly taking in the light of reality through the words as they emerge.

Then, when the poet confirms their status becomes an oracular character for it, as he decides what tone, what substance will be tacking its forms. It is the most critical moment, because here we decide what was and what will be offered. In this if the author fails to understand the place in which gravitate its creation, is where the work is done live or perish forever.

For this to take shape, step by step, the demiurge who weaves their profiles must project an image of the future of his work so that this never access and recess to substitute, however attractive they are the glory and fame . You must imagine and will want to sum nest where his verses and what reality will be lifted and renewed forever. Beyond himself, as he will remain as an anecdote, as a bug in the margins.

Thus, in the poetic work of this author, can one read poetry without concessions from the first verse to the last. Even if you go to the index of first lines, you can compose something like a patchwork, and that poetry is any combination emerges.

AC's poetry will live forever, because it is what it is man. It recognizes the man in your condition. This is neither more nor less than a living example of poetry and I'm so attracted to this proposal, and so enthralled with this tiny little these verses that I began to read aloud with the newest edition exquisite in his hands all over the house to the house, he thought, was getting the break and the need for these words.

This poetry is so far from what others do, but at the same time, so close to the man who is perhaps this same man, its substance, its essence, the deepest and not everyone can perceive. And it is these words that are closest to the concert I felt yesterday in the reading of these poems: the word through my condition and offered me purge.

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A ber one this book most of the time without a compass or astrolabe. Is a succession. A continuous greening that blooms despite their resignations. In a diary, as I do now, can you decide without further ruthlessly que los que correspondan a su estado de ánimo o que ocurran en unas circunstancias muy exactas. El peligro de establecerse en unas coordenadas reconocibles consiste en perder universalidad, cosa que sacude la literatura del momento, demasiado preocupada en sí misma y en sus cortas propuestas.

Hay que escribir como del alma. Hay que reconocerse en los márgenes de las anotaciones y para ello, para que eso sea una presencia figurada, el escritor debe hacerse invisible en su escritura. Una fantasmagoría, holograma o dicción de lo ausente.

Debería uno sentarse en el centro del bosque a respirar. A penetrarse en sí mismo para recoger en your lungs to breathe in the world, the slow and evanescent air invasion. Should one sit without support anything without being dropped on the ground. Breathe, shed light, merging into the vast gardens of the aurora.

in Fiesole, with an angry and vengeful sun, surrounded by pine and eucalyptus, bamboo, dreaming their trunks erect the arrival of light, lucid walked our breaths. The only inhabitant was silence. The branches dancing to mountain wind. They moved the branches and leaves of the vines poking their faces on the roads. Closed churches, closed houses, the fields were shut by the lethargy of Ferragosto. And only our steps, our early and tentative steps, for help against the Arno decrepit.

As the Tao, you look and you can not see, hear and you can not hear, but, above all, use it and you can not exhaust. Therein lies the power of literature, the state that the writer seeks: to find a creative band that never runs out despite yourself.

***

At times, I am content to write in the notebook a few words: grayness, poetry, travel, status, beauty, for example. With just think them enough, as is his entry for the soul begins to beat us.

***

S é these are not the only letters of the day. is customary, the more agitated and more I move forward, before I stop writing.

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L to humility has been diluted in the advancement of societies and in the future of hombre.Es clearly a virtue, I say, true humility, which was aspiration of the great minds and universal poets.

happens that when I keep a conversation or a dialogue with someone, when it comes to a close, I see a vacuum and a reflection of mental tara. I feel so Kafka, as Bernhard in dialogues and I feel so heavily in my words.

I someday get the guts and leave on the table, as the samurai casts his deepest and human properties to the public. Or let alone a verse, a verse harmonious shining hinted it all pointing to nothing. ***

H ay words, to appear in a poem, should be well established by the poet. I mean, that the poet had to have worked the semantics of his poetry with an outstanding destination. Words such as burning, for example, or variegated. In this sense, the work of the novelist is quite different, because his speech covers a macrostructure in which to end the speech are the two or three hundred pages. As these mismatches are mere incidents around the scaffolding.
not that the problem of poetry. Is of another tenor. Poetry is the selection for redemption of the word in much asalvajada structure and inane. ***

L or said one day, "among many other trifles, in a bar accompanied by two people I admire too much. A line of AC is worth all the work of LGM of which only recall that the wrong genre in its creation and mixing pseudopolítcas ideas to literature. It is unusual, a poet of the past, rather than providing new impetus, which has made it wither everything. Theirs was the brochure and marketing, we may say, when you stop taking his post modern poet as media and publishing. So I write as an antique and therefore we maintain the respect, do not knot what has no substance. ***

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E s no doubt that we exist not only in our inventions. Memory, the memory, the subjunctive perspective stalk. All words are missing in ourselves: do not live in the memory or speech. In both paradigms are fugitive, perhaps noticeable. Therefore, the natural state, which may explain these uncontrollable desire of becoming etre is to show that we do not exist, only keep up the discourse sleepwalker a shadow of a team speculate.

In this diary should have everything from hobbies to the most faithful to the most trivial. Should one write at full speed without being greatly obfuscate the like, the adjectives or any of the mechanisms of literary language. As does the sea, open to the elements. It is difficult to capture the freshness of the picture in which someone writes in solitude, wanting only transmit sketches, feelings, the natural notes of what happened in one day. He said that sometimes, one that would free the hand and go with a sudden outburst or a momentary stupor and left, for example, punctuation and spelling conventions, especially to make the speech a single object, without oracles merely recreation. This should be done, because life is so unexpected, but never dispersed recognizable, despite the writer try to be angry in a self that experiences baste.

however, is the writing that makes this concert dispersion and the weakness of vital coherence. It is she who reconciles what was part of other beaches. Syntax is writing what thrills there.

Sometimes, no one dares to strike out as usual and write separate paragraphs, isolated like an island at night. That is the day, a group that seeks the unknown unit, a meeting of tolling grounds daily to detect the presence of others.

Poetry is the genre of the lens.

So, therefore, not too much care as determined by a sometimes revolutionary lines with threats and attempted of rebellion. What does the writer of yore to feel, at times, the owner of a microcosm in which gravitates without conscience.

Beethoven quartets are those that harmonize the afternoon. What wonder why the composition and depth and mystery. This work meets what JRJ intended for poetry: intensity, charm and mystery.

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Infocentro Opened in Naval Base "CA Augustine Wardrobe

The revolutionary military, Captain Manuel Ponte Rodriguez was a precursor antiimperalista movement, spearheaded the civic movement military known as "The Porteñazo" on June 2, 1962, which was built in the town of Puerto Cabello against the repressive government of Rómulo Betancourt. The newly opened Infocentro Naval Base in Puerto Cabello, bears his name.

activity held last February, was the beautiful example of a military parade by the Marine Battalion and the presence of students UNEFA, facilitators of Infocentro Project Carabobo state, children and teachers of the Bolivarian School Naval Base, Marine brigades and various contingents of the Bolivarian Armada.

Infocentro Project President, Nancy Zambrano was also there along with national team members. So military people and share this experience that we continue taking all our compatriots in all the spaces, Information and Communication Technologies. Similarly, training our youth of the Bolivarian Armed for professional development through transfer of technologies for release.

Communities can benefit from this Infocentro are Borburata, Gañango, Patanemo, Casco Puerto Cabello, La Belisa, Rancho Grande, San Esteban and the Keys.

The Infocentro also has connection to the Simon Bolivar Satellite VENESAT-1, also demonstrating that it is a tool for technological independence.

News sent by the team Infocentro Carabobo state.

Maryuri Gonzalez / Office of Strategic Communications

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E sta morning in Italica. Cypress trees, roads, ancient land of humidity and a garden from afar. To all this, verses were added Rodrigo Caro close to memory to help the noise around us. In the air, serene funerals so it was wonder. It is a tale that defies time memory. ***

H acia while reading an essay not as substantial and accurate as that of Paul Preston, The English Holocaust. So far, their judgments are measured and are well contrasted. Even in the pages devoted to the PCE and the Board of defense of Madrid, in which Carrillo was so important, out with commendable elegance. No wonder that Carrillo is to be skipped, as these pages Paracuellos and many other political tyrants of all stripes are finally well braided greatly. ***

M eanwhile, the text of the work of Seneca, Hercules Furens , the protagonist states (so I write in my moleskine in the crowd): I have put down the dark night and seen the sun never came into view. The second stride of the event I can not say that it has heard from the mouth of actor, and I think I wrote it drunk by the opening words. I could not even rescue the original text, probably belonging to the invention. In these passages, recalls the exploits of Orpheus Coryphaeus in the realm of Pluto. At that moment, Hercules, driven by the philosophy that the author of the book, Seneca, entered, he claims that, like an actor Blade Runner, which has been in places that light is not known, that the imagination does not dream. Along with his words that build a world-past, Theseus agrees and confirms, as Sancho the final days of his master. Theseus and the wake of the recall, the glass that is poured all the hero's melancholy. ***

H ay a coal tender on these evenings. The golden light, the green hills sacrilegious. A smoldering ember of life, the life anesthetized man wants to spend his shadow. Today I shot down the dark of night, I downed the absence of nostalgia. Reserves its position when reality itself is intact, when I perceived, as in dreams, do not need verbal roll.

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The eye that sees no dreams. The eye knows it sounds and go to a perception of greatness. From his perspective, the man expands and breaks up to where I've never been aware. In the dream there is no fragmentation of reality, is all. Turner's painting is a dream. Rilke's poetry is a dream. What is seen is a near total, of which we part with boundaries diffuse and labile. And the poet must not fall in anthropomorphizing the cosmos, harmony. Should let forth gently, to get into their mechanisms. In that gear, must be an illusion of his own material. Shall, where the night air already flooded all, when the air is that their cadences in the breath that connects us with the world, what sustains their loyalty to silence.

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Unfortunately L to Orpheus is unique because it knows death and life, the vertical and horizontal. Experience comes from his desire to ring his instrument to overcome the beasts. It is a civilizing act, which leads to peace and harmony even among those who are not able to understand the dimensions of the world. His harmony is created when the vibrations and waves begin to appear around him and eventually catch it, submit it, flood it. In Orpheus offers perpetual image of man is fully conscious of death and life. And in that intermediate state, only the music redeems, because it combines the two expectations.

is an action that begins at the idea of \u200b\u200bharmony and fruitful efforts of the same materials. No other discipline overwhelmed to the extent that makes the music. No one has been able to free herself of both men since its inception. The architecture, sculpture, painting and poetry have been constantly at the whim of mortals needs. But why did the music, what Mesopotamia was incorporated in funerary instruments, what Pythagoras, St. Augustine, Rilke?

***

L to music is a piece of our home and it is unrecognizable. We can only rejoice. ***

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N i memory is the bastion of lived experience and memory. Remain in the center of myself, in the center perpetual myself in the center of the center of myself, where nothing ever glimpsed. It is poetry which has declined this light and its path. ***

L you entirely Greeks conquered the permanence of being in words. Nest there since then and, from that point, when being learned to stand on meekness. ***

L a cantata 140, Bach, and the grave black all afternoon, Lully, Vivaldi and Orpheus traveled. Not beyond oneself is the wonder of the world is in bringing together the opposites; breathe slow my breathing world ; in man born and perceived harmony resonates, which builds and voids, which lavish and curtails the senses. There is no syntax in his words. Agglomeration conceived. Light, trace, loitering, living flame of love that fertilizes death. ***

E l desiring space that ambition comes from ourselves. ***

world l E unbind the principle that sustains it. The poet aspires to be linked to the blinding light if one turns away from her, which hinted at his left Dante Paradise, when the words were fallible positions of the spirit.

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Report from Maracay - Aragua (Venezuela) Banda Ku

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T an upright, so bountiful this afternoon. I am reminded that we had to take shelter in Perugia of sudden rain. The sky was as now, but was on the horizon a meeting of small towns scattered throughout the Umbria that betrayed the will of the land. In the background, put out of perspective, was Arezzo. Alone and rested. Showing their profiles among the trees that seemed to defend the time. It seems that is a reserve and also an impregnable stronghold, as was the birthplace of Petrarch and the desire to see that there is a vast dawn is announced in silence.

that asthma will be back with their requirements, with this harsh cough and this soulless body, and that fever leads one to fragment the memory until derive it from where I've never operated. Breathing and literature. Is that a team that writers have always been present, especially writers who believe that there is something mineral, transcendent, in his words, like Rilke, Baudelaire or JRJ Because words belong to the air when spoken, but also air and wind and harmony when read. To sigh and spleen internal filaments denouncing the intangibles what beautiful pages or how beautiful the light fall inward.

breathing and statues, for example, or the air that moves in the surf witnessed from the balcony. A wave morning, with too much vigor and with a deep music, brought from the depths of an unknown staff. First

suspense be dropped. What longing repeated in this being. How hungry and thirsty space of sky, slightly be without say do not belong to anything, for whom anything owes nothing belongs to reverence without anything to stand on, only in the vertical, in the breath that unites us with the external and us back to ourselves, limpid, renewed, still persisted in the circle that we draw. At the stroke of this circle speculate breeze and three, in hopes fake body in the night.

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A sometimes irritates me that the upstart or witty or gotten a writer and literature declared that without this or that author-especially renowned, such as Baudelaire, "is not what has always been said, because he, the new leader of the literature and has revived a form of writing and reading, comes in to say that boutade wins . Think your criteria cathedral will rise further while more famous is the writer of yore. However, literature has always kept the fate of everyone, because it is merely clear and the words of these eminent writers remain as an eyesore on all of the arguments supporting their sledgehammers.

D ***

fter reading, I mean, background lines, makes me want to delete them and throw them into oblivion, but it will end after just sensitive of Trapiello, enter one in the spiral of sincerity even though this may be offensive in any case. The truth is that we tontuna in these times, when anyone comes without a license and decide, given their ignorance, to say that this poet does not mean anything or that this author is masterful, is more common than usual. Only that, the envelope of what is believed literature. ***

T

odavía in Malaga, the sky gray and the mountain at last in sight, as the fog has decided to leave the landscape to venture out to sea. We are here doing what we promised: rest and reading. Since then, the readings were in the cloth bag being made and it is a satisfaction that did not get much time with this fully. Just after finishing sensitive and read and write several books of poems , I see M. attentive to the Italian language, but with a calm and temperance, for it was a necessary good. ***

E l craft of writing is that of Lázaro de Tormes, be aware of people's lives, but always bearing in mind that life, which is dissolved in consciousness, not ours. As the book of Lazarus, which is neither day nor novel nor life, nor adversity, but it could be all at the same time. O's own Don Quixote, who looks more like a symbolic exercise of a spirit outstripped that of Cervantes. ***

T period that you go this tropics scoring, which blend the life and literature, is perhaps an answer to the questions that I frequent daily. In Emily Dickinson's poems the reader can find strength in miniature, but entire life behind those words that enhance and elevate to a higher pitch. This is the case with Rilke and Tolstoy, their lives are those of their books or books are written lessons, as they belong to all genders and all structures. I mean, if this persists tropics is not for life itself, rather for the rest that remove and usurped.

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