V

A few days after this, Virginia and her curly-haired cavalier went out riding on Brockley meadows, where she tore her habit so badly in getting through a hedge that, on their return home, she made up her mind to go up by the back staircase so as not to be seen. As she was running past the Tapestry Chamber, the door of which happened to be open, she fancied she saw some one inside, and thinking it was her mother's maid, who sometimes used to bring her work there, looked in to ask her to mend her habit. To her immense surprise, however, it was the Canterville Ghost himself! He was sitting by the window, watching the ruined gold of the yellowing trees fly through the air, and the red leaves dancing madly down the long avenue. His head was leaning on his hand, and his whole attitude was one of extreme depression. Indeed, so forlorn, and so much out of repair did he look, that little Virginia, whose first idea had been to run away and lock herself in her room, was filled with pity, and determined to try and comfort him. So light was her footfall, and so deep his melancholy, that he was not aware of her presence till she spoke to him.

"I am so sorry for you," she said, "but my brothers are going back to Eton to-morrow, and then, if you behave yourself, no one will annoy you."

"It is absurd asking me to behave myself," he answered, looking round in astonishment at the pretty little girl who had ventured to address him, "quite absurd. I must rattle my chains, and groan through keyholes, and walk about at night, if that is what you mean. It is my only reason for existing."

"It is no reason at all for existing, and you know you have been very wicked. Mrs. Umney told us, the first day we arrived here, that you had killed your wife."

"Well, I quite admit it," said the Ghost, petulantly, "but it was a purely family matter, and concerned no one else."

"It is very wrong to kill any one," said Virginia, who at times had a sweet puritan gravity, caught from some old New England ancestor.

"Oh, I hate the cheap severity of abstract ethics! My wife was very plain, never had my ruffs properly starched, and knew nothing about cookery. Why, there was a buck I had shot in Hogley Woods, a magnificent pricket, and do you know how she had it sent to table? However, it is no matter now, for it is all over, and I don't think it was very nice of her brothers to starve me to death, though I did kill her."

"Starve you to death? Oh, Mr. Ghost—I mean Sir Simon, are you hungry? I have a sandwich in my case. Would you like it?"

"No, thank you, I never eat anything now; but it is very kind of you, all the same, and you are much nicer than the rest of your horrid, rude, vulgar, dishonest family."

"Stop!" cried Virginia, stamping her foot, "it is you who are rude, and horrid, and vulgar, and as for dishonesty, you know you stole the paints out of my box to try and furbish up that ridiculous blood-stain in the library. First you took all my reds, including the vermilion, and I couldn't do any more sunsets, then you took the emerald-green and the chrome-yellow, and finally I had nothing left but indigo and Chinese white, and could only do moonlight scenes, which are always depressing to look at, and not at all easy to paint. I never told on you, though I was very much annoyed, and it was most ridiculous, the whole thing; for who ever heard of emerald-green blood?"

"Well, really," said the Ghost, rather meekly, "what was I to do? It is a very difficult thing to get real blood nowadays, and, as your brother began it all with his Paragon Detergent, I certainly saw no reason why I should not have your paints. As for colour, that is always a matter of taste: the Cantervilles have blue blood, for instance, the very bluest in England; but I know you Americans don't care for things of this kind."

"You know nothing about it, and the best thing you can do is to emigrate and improve your mind. My father will be only too happy to give you a free passage, and though there is a heavy duty on spirits of every kind, there will be no difficulty about the Custom House, as the officers are all Democrats. Once in New York, you are sure to be a great success. I know lots of people there who would give a hundred thousand dollars to have a grandfather, and much more than that to have a family ghost."

"I don't think I should like America."

"I suppose because we have no ruins and no curiosities," said Virginia, satirically.

"No ruins! no curiosities!" answered the Ghost; "you have your navy and your manners."

"Good evening; I will go and ask papa to get the twins an extra week's holiday."

"Please don't go, Miss Virginia," he cried; "I am so lonely and so unhappy, and I really don't know what to do. I want to go to sleep and I cannot."

"That's quite absurd! You have merely to go to bed and blow out the candle. It is very difficult sometimes to keep awake, especially at church, but there is no difficulty at all about sleeping. Why, even babies know how to do that, and they are not very clever."

"I have not slept for three hundred years," he said sadly, and Virginia's beautiful blue eyes opened in wonder; "for three hundred years I have not slept, and I am so tired."

Virginia grew quite grave, and her little lips trembled like rose-leaves. She came towards him, and kneeling down at his side, looked up into his old withered face.

"Poor, poor Ghost," she murmured; "have you no place where you can sleep?"

"Far away beyond the pine-woods," he answered, in a low, dreamy voice, "there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold crystal moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the sleepers."

Virginia's eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands.

"You mean the Garden of Death," she whispered.

"Yes, death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be at peace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of death's house, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death is."

Virginia trembled, a cold shudder ran through her, and for a few moments there was silence. She felt as if she was in a terrible dream.

Then the ghost spoke again, and his voice sounded like the sighing of the wind.

"Have you ever read the old prophecy on the library window?"

"Oh, often," cried the little girl, looking up; "I know it quite well. It is painted in curious black letters, and is difficult to read. There are only six lines:

"'When a golden girl can win

Prayer from out the lips of sin,

When the barren almond bears,

And a little child gives away its tears,

Then shall all the house be still

And peace come to Canterville.'

But I don't know what they mean."

"They mean," he said, sadly, "that you must weep with me for my sins, because I have no tears, and pray with me for my soul, because I have no faith, and then, if you have always been sweet, and good, and gentle, the angel of death will have mercy on me. You will see fearful shapes in darkness, and wicked voices will whisper in your ear, but they will not harm you, for against the purity of a little child the powers of Hell cannot prevail."

Virginia made no answer, and the ghost wrung his hands in wild despair as he looked down at her bowed golden head. Suddenly she stood up, very pale, and with a strange light in her eyes. "I am not afraid," she said firmly, "and I will ask the angel to have mercy on you."

He rose from his seat with a faint cry of joy, and taking her hand bent over it with old-fashioned grace and kissed it. His fingers were as cold as ice, and his lips burned like fire, but Virginia did not falter, as he led her across the dusky room. On the faded green tapestry were broidered little huntsmen. They blew their tasselled horns and with their tiny hands waved to her to go back. "Go back! little Virginia," they cried, "go back!" but the ghost clutched her hand more tightly, and she shut her eyes against them. Horrible animals with lizard tails and goggle eyes blinked at her from the carven chimneypiece, and murmured, "Beware! little Virginia, beware! we may never see you again," but the Ghost glided on more swiftly, and Virginia did not listen. When they reached the end of the room he stopped, and muttered some words she could not understand. She opened her eyes, and saw the wall slowly fading away like a mist, and a great black cavern in front of her. A bitter cold wind swept round them, and she felt something pulling at her dress. "Quick, quick," cried the Ghost, "or it will be too late," and in a moment the wainscoting had closed behind them, and the Tapestry Chamber was empty.

IV

The next day the ghost was very weak and tired. The terrible excitement of the last four weeks was beginning to have its effect. His nerves were completely shattered, and he started at the slightest noise. For five days he kept his room, and at last made up his mind to give up the point of the blood-stain on the library floor. If the Otis family did not want it, they clearly did not deserve it. They were evidently people on a low, material plane of existence, and quite incapable of appreciating the symbolic value of sensuous phenomena. The question of phantasmic apparitions, and the development of astral bodies, was of course quite a different matter, and really not under his control. It was his solemn duty to appear in the corridor once a week, and to gibber from the large oriel window on the first and third Wednesdays in every month, and he did not see how he could honourably escape from his obligations. It is quite true that his life had been very evil, but, upon the other hand, he was most conscientious in all things connected with the supernatural. For the next three Saturdays, accordingly, he traversed the corridor as usual between midnight and three o'clock, taking every possible precaution against being either heard or seen. He removed his boots, trod as lightly as possible on the old worm-eaten boards, wore a large black velvet cloak, and was careful to use the Rising Sun Lubricator for oiling his chains. I am bound to acknowledge that it was with a good deal of difficulty that he brought himself to adopt this last mode of protection. However, one night, while the family were at dinner, he slipped into Mr. Otis's bedroom and carried off the bottle. He felt a little humiliated at first, but afterwards was sensible enough to see that there was a great deal to be said for the invention, and, to a certain degree, it served his purpose. Still in spite of everything he was not left unmolested. Strings were continually being stretched across the corridor, over which he tripped in the dark, and on one occasion, while dressed for the part of "Black Isaac, or the Huntsman of Hogley Woods," he met with a severe fall, through treading on a butter-slide, which the twins had constructed from the entrance of the Tapestry Chamber to the top of the oak staircase. This last insult so enraged him, that he resolved to make one final effort to assert his dignity and social position, and determined to visit the insolent young Etonians the next night in his celebrated character of "Reckless Rupert, or the Headless Earl."

He had not appeared in this disguise for more than seventy years; in fact, not since he had so frightened pretty Lady Barbara Modish by means of it, that she suddenly broke off her engagement with the present Lord Canterville's grandfather, and ran away to Gretna Green with handsome Jack Castletown, declaring that nothing in the world would induce her to marry into a family that allowed such a horrible phantom to walk up and down the terrace at twilight. Poor Jack was afterwards shot in a duel by Lord Canterville on Wandsworth Common, and Lady Barbara died of a broken heart at Tunbridge Wells before the year was out, so, in every way, it had been a great success. It was, however an extremely difficult "make-up," if I may use such a theatrical expression in connection with one of the greatest mysteries of the supernatural, or, to employ a more scientific term, the higher-natural world, and it took him fully three hours to make his preparations. At last everything was ready, and he was very pleased with his appearance. The big leather riding-boots that went with the dress were just a little too large for him, and he could only find one of the two horse-pistols, but, on the whole, he was quite satisfied, and at a quarter-past one he glided out of the wainscoting and crept down the corridor. On reaching the room occupied by the twins, which I should mention was called the Blue Bed Chamber, on account of the colour of its hangings, he found the door just ajar. Wishing to make an effective entrance, he flung it wide open, when a heavy jug of water fell right down on him, wetting him to the skin, and just missing his left shoulder by a couple of inches. At the same moment he heard stifled shrieks of laughter proceeding from the four-post bed. The shock to his nervous system was so great that he fled back to his room as hard as he could go, and the next day he was laid up with a severe cold. The only thing that at all consoled him in the whole affair was the fact that he had not brought his head with him, for, had he done so, the consequences might have been very serious.

He now gave up all hope of ever frightening this rude American family, and contented himself, as a rule, with creeping about the passages in list slippers, with a thick red muffler round his throat for fear of draughts, and a small arquebuse, in case he should be attacked by the twins. The final blow he received occurred on the 19th of September. He had gone down-stairs to the great entrance-hall, feeling sure that there, at any rate, he would be quite unmolested, and was amusing himself by making satirical remarks on the large Saroni photographs of the United States Minister and his wife which had now taken the place of the Canterville family pictures. He was simply but neatly clad in a long shroud, spotted with churchyard mould, had tied up his jaw with a strip of yellow linen, and carried a small lantern and a sexton's spade. In fact, he was dressed for the character of "Jonas the Graveless, or the Corpse-Snatcher of Chertsey Barn," one of his most remarkable impersonations, and one which the Cantervilles had every reason to remember, as it was the real origin of their quarrel with their neighbour, Lord Rufford. It was about a quarter-past two o'clock in the morning, and, as far as he could ascertain, no one was stirring. As he was strolling towards the library, however, to see if there were any traces left of the blood-stain, suddenly there leaped out on him from a dark corner two figures, who waved their arms wildly above their heads, and shrieked out "BOO!" in his ear.

Seized with a panic, which, under the circumstances, was only natural, he rushed for the staircase, but found Washington Otis waiting for him there with the big garden-syringe, and being thus hemmed in by his enemies on every side, and driven almost to bay, he vanished into the great iron stove, which, fortunately for him, was not lit, and had to make his way home through the flues and chimneys, arriving at his own room in a terrible state of dirt, disorder, and despair.

After this he was not seen again on any nocturnal expedition. The twins lay in wait for him on several occasions, and strewed the passages with nutshells every night to the great annoyance of their parents and the servants, but it was of no avail. It was quite evident that his feelings were so wounded that he would not appear. Mr. Otis consequently resumed his great work on the history of the Democratic Party, on which he had been engaged for some years; Mrs. Otis organized a wonderful clam-bake, which amazed the whole county; the boys took to lacrosse euchre, poker, and other American national games, and Virginia rode about the lanes on her pony, accompanied by the young Duke of Cheshire, who had come to spend the last week of his holidays at Canterville Chase. It was generally assumed that the ghost had gone away, and, in fact, Mr. Otis wrote a letter to that effect to Lord Canterville, who, in reply, expressed his great pleasure at the news, and sent his best congratulations to the Minister's worthy wife.

The Otises, however, were deceived, for the ghost was still in the house, and though now almost an invalid, was by no means ready to let matters rest, particularly as he heard that among the guests was the young Duke of Cheshire, whose grand-uncle, Lord Francis Stilton, had once bet a hundred guineas with Colonel Carbury that he would play dice with the Canterville ghost, and was found the next morning lying on the floor of the card-room in such a helpless paralytic state that, though he lived on to a great age, he was never able to say anything again but "Double Sixes." The story was well known at the time, though, of course, out of respect to the feelings of the two noble families, every attempt was made to hush it up, and a full account of all the circumstances connected with it will be found in the third volume of Lord Tattle's Recollections of the Prince Regent and his Friends. The ghost, then, was naturally very anxious to show that he had not lost his influence over the Stiltons, with whom, indeed, he was distantly connected, his own first cousin having been married en secondes noces to the Sieur de Bulkeley, from whom, as every one knows, the Dukes of Cheshire are lineally descended. Accordingly, he made arrangements for appearing to Virginia's little lover in his celebrated impersonation of "The Vampire Monk, or the Bloodless Benedictine," a performance so horrible that when old Lady Startup saw it, which she did on one fatal New Year's Eve, in the year 1764, she went off into the most piercing shrieks, which culminated in violent apoplexy, and died in three days, after disinheriting the Cantervilles, who were her nearest relations, and leaving all her money to her London apothecary. At the last moment, however, his terror of the twins prevented his leaving his room, and the little Duke slept in peace under the great feathered canopy in the Royal Bedchamber, and dreamed of Virginia.

Resaca y no por alcohol???... Nunca lo hubiera creído... pero sinceramente NO es agradable...

Ni modo... de nuevo a los chochos... =S

Mientras... Más del fantasma...

III

The next morning, when the Otis family met at breakfast, they discussed the ghost at some length. The United States Minister was naturally a little annoyed to find that his present had not been accepted. "I have no wish," he said, "to do the ghost any personal injury, and I must say that, considering the length of time he has been in the house, I don't think it is at all polite to throw pillows at him,"—a very just remark, at which, I am sorry to say, the twins burst into shouts of laughter. "Upon the other hand," he continued, "if he really declines to use the Rising Sun Lubricator, we shall have to take his chains from him. It would be quite impossible to sleep, with such a noise going on outside the bedrooms."

For the rest of the week, however, they were undisturbed, the only thing that excited any attention being the continual renewal of the blood-stain on the library floor. This certainly was very strange, as the door was always locked at night by Mr. Otis, and the windows kept closely barred. The chameleon-like colour, also, of the stain excited a good deal of comment. Some mornings it was a dull (almost Indian) red, then it would be vermilion, then a rich purple, and once when they came down for family prayers, according to the simple rites of the Free American Reformed Episcopalian Church, they found it a bright emerald-green. These kaleidoscopic changes naturally amused the party very much, and bets on the subject were freely made every evening. The only person who did not enter into the joke was little Virginia, who, for some unexplained reason, was always a good deal distressed at the sight of the blood-stain, and very nearly cried the morning it was emerald-green.

The second appearance of the ghost was on Sunday night. Shortly after they had gone to bed they were suddenly alarmed by a fearful crash in the hall. Rushing down-stairs, they found that a large suit of old armour had become detached from its stand, and had fallen on the stone floor, while seated in a high-backed chair was the Canterville ghost, rubbing his knees with an expression of acute agony on his face. The twins, having brought their pea-shooters with them, at once discharged two pellets on him, with that accuracy of aim which can only be attained by long and careful practice on a writing-master, while the United States Minister covered him with his revolver, and called upon him, in accordance with Californian etiquette, to hold up his hands! The ghost started up with a wild shriek of rage, and swept through them like a mist, extinguishing Washington Otis's candle as he passed, and so leaving them all in total darkness. On reaching the top of the staircase he recovered himself, and determined to give his celebrated peal of demoniac laughter. This he had on more than one occasion found extremely useful. It was said to have turned Lord Raker's wig grey in a single night, and had certainly made three of Lady Canterville's French governesses give warning before their month was up. He accordingly laughed his most horrible laugh, till the old vaulted roof rang and rang again, but hardly had the fearful echo died away when a door opened, and Mrs. Otis came out in a light blue dressing-gown. "I am afraid you are far from well," she said, "and have brought you a bottle of Doctor Dobell's tincture. If it is indigestion, you will find it a most excellent remedy." The ghost glared at her in fury, and began at once to make preparations for turning himself into a large black dog, an accomplishment for which he was justly renowned, and to which the family doctor always attributed the permanent idiocy of Lord Canterville's uncle, the Hon. Thomas Horton. The sound of approaching footsteps, however, made him hesitate in his fell purpose, so he contented himself with becoming faintly phosphorescent, and vanished with a deep churchyard groan, just as the twins had come up to him.

On reaching his room he entirely broke down, and became a prey to the most violent agitation. The vulgarity of the twins, and the gross materialism of Mrs. Otis, were naturally extremely annoying, but what really distressed him most was that he had been unable to wear the suit of mail. He had hoped that even modern Americans would be thrilled by the sight of a Spectre in armour, if for no more sensible reason, at least out of respect for their natural poet Longfellow, over whose graceful and attractive poetry he himself had whiled away many a weary hour when the Cantervilles were up in town. Besides it was his own suit. He had worn it with great success at the Kenilworth tournament, and had been highly complimented on it by no less a person than the Virgin Queen herself. Yet when he had put it on, he had been completely overpowered by the weight of the huge breastplate and steel casque, and had fallen heavily on the stone pavement, barking both his knees severely, and bruising the knuckles of his right hand.

For some days after this he was extremely ill, and hardly stirred out of his room at all, except to keep the blood-stain in proper repair. However, by taking great care of himself, he recovered, and resolved to make a third attempt to frighten the United States Minister and his family. He selected Friday, August 17th, for his appearance, and spent most of that day in looking over his wardrobe, ultimately deciding in favour of a large slouched hat with a red feather, a winding-sheet frilled at the wrists and neck, and a rusty dagger. Towards evening a violent storm of rain came on, and the wind was so high that all the windows and doors in the old house shook and rattled. In fact, it was just such weather as he loved. His plan of action was this. He was to make his way quietly to Washington Otis's room, gibber at him from the foot of the bed, and stab himself three times in the throat to the sound of low music. He bore Washington a special grudge, being quite aware that it was he who was in the habit of removing the famous Canterville blood-stain by means of Pinkerton's Paragon Detergent. Having reduced the reckless and foolhardy youth to a condition of abject terror, he was then to proceed to the room occupied by the United States Minister and his wife, and there to place a clammy hand on Mrs. Otis's forehead, while he hissed into her trembling husband's ear the awful secrets of the charnel-house.

With regard to little Virginia, he had not quite made up his mind. She had never insulted him in any way, and was pretty and gentle. A few hollow groans from the wardrobe, he thought, would be more than sufficient, or, if that failed to wake her, he might grabble at the counterpane with palsy-twitching fingers. As for the twins, he was quite determined to teach them a lesson. The first thing to be done was, of course, to sit upon their chests, so as to produce the stifling sensation of nightmare. Then, as their beds were quite close to each other, to stand between them in the form of a green, icy-cold corpse, till they became paralyzed with fear, and finally, to throw off the winding-sheet, and crawl round the room, with white, bleached bones and one rolling eyeball, in the character of "Dumb Daniel, or the Suicide's Skeleton," a rôle in which he had on more than one occasion produced a great effect, and which he considered quite equal to his famous part of "Martin the Maniac, or the Masked Mystery."

At half-past ten he heard the family going to bed. For some time he was disturbed by wild shrieks of laughter from the twins, who, with the light-hearted gaiety of schoolboys, were evidently amusing themselves before they retired to rest, but at a quarter-past eleven all was still, and, as midnight sounded, he sallied forth. The owl beat against the window-panes, the raven croaked from the old yew-tree, and the wind wandered moaning round the house like a lost soul; but the Otis family slept unconscious of their doom, and high above the rain and storm he could hear the steady snoring of the Minister for the United States. He stepped stealthily out of the wainscoting, with an evil smile on his cruel, wrinkled mouth, and the moon hid her face in a cloud as he stole past the great oriel window, where his own arms and those of his murdered wife were blazoned in azure and gold. On and on he glided, like an evil shadow, the very darkness seeming to loathe him as he passed. Once he thought he heard something call, and stopped; but it was only the baying of a dog from the Red Farm, and he went on, muttering strange sixteenth-century curses, and ever and anon brandishing the rusty dagger in the midnight air. Finally he reached the corner of the passage that led to luckless Washington's room. For a moment he paused there, the wind blowing his long grey locks about his head, and twisting into grotesque and fantastic folds the nameless horror of the dead man's shroud. Then the clock struck the quarter, and he felt the time was come. He chuckled to himself, and turned the corner; but no sooner had he done so than, with a piteous wail of terror, he fell back, and hid his blanched face in his long, bony hands. Right in front of him was standing a horrible spectre, motionless as a carven image, and monstrous as a madman's dream! Its head was bald and burnished; its face round, and fat, and white; and hideous laughter seemed to have writhed its features into an eternal grin. From the eyes streamed rays of scarlet light, the mouth was a wide well of fire, and a hideous garment, like to his own, swathed with its silent snows the Titan form. On its breast was a placard with strange writing in antique characters, some scroll of shame it seemed, some record of wild sins, some awful calendar of crime, and, with its right hand, it bore aloft a falchion of gleaming steel.

Never having seen a ghost before, he naturally was terribly frightened, and, after a second hasty glance at the awful phantom, he fled back to his room, tripping up in his long winding-sheet as he sped down the corridor, and finally dropping the rusty dagger into the Minister's jack-boots, where it was found in the morning by the butler.

Once in the privacy of his own apartment, he flung himself down on a small pallet-bed, and hid his face under the clothes. After a time, however, the brave old Canterville spirit asserted itself, and he determined to go and speak to the other ghost as soon as it was daylight. Accordingly, just as the dawn was touching the hills with silver, he returned towards the spot where he had first laid eyes on the grisly phantom, feeling that, after all, two ghosts were better than one, and that, by the aid of his new friend, he might safely grapple with the twins. On reaching the spot, however, a terrible sight met his gaze. Something had evidently happened to the spectre, for the light had entirely faded from its hollow eyes, the gleaming falchion had fallen from its hand, and it was leaning up against the wall in a strained and uncomfortable attitude. He rushed forward and seized it in his arms, when, to his horror, the head slipped off and rolled on the floor, the body assumed a recumbent posture, and he found himself clasping a white dimity bed-curtain, with a sweeping-brush, a kitchen cleaver, and a hollow turnip lying at his feet! Unable to understand this curious transformation, he clutched the placard with feverish haste, and there, in the grey morning light, he read these fearful words:—

YE OTIS GHOSTE

Ye Onlie True and Originale Spook,

Beware of Ye Imitationes.

All others are counterfeite.

The whole thing flashed across him. He had been tricked, foiled, and out-witted! The old Canterville look came into his eyes; he ground his toothless gums together; and, raising his withered hands high above his head, swore according to the picturesque phraseology of the antique school, that, when Chanticleer had sounded twice his merry horn, deeds of blood would be wrought, and murder walk abroad with silent feet.

Hardly had he finished this awful oath when, from the red-tiled roof of a distant homestead, a cock crew. He laughed a long, low, bitter laugh, and waited. Hour after hour he waited, but the cock, for some strange reason, did not crow again. Finally, at half-past seven, the arrival of the housemaids made him give up his fearful vigil, and he stalked back to his room, thinking of his vain oath and baffled purpose. There he consulted several books of ancient chivalry, of which he was exceedingly fond, and found that, on every occasion on which this oath had been used, Chanticleer had always crowed a second time. "Perdition seize the naughty fowl," he muttered, "I have seen the day when, with my stout spear, I would have run him through the gorge, and made him crow for me an 'twere in death!" He then retired to a comfortable lead coffin, and stayed there till evening.

Mi psicóloga solía decir (y no sólo ella en realidad) que además del trabajo debería de tener otras actividades que me levantaran un poco el ánimo... que me dieran confianza en lo que hago y en lo que soy....

Pero pensar que no hay nada de lo que planeé algún día... y sentir que cualquier cosa que hago (llámese esas "otras" actividades)... no sólo en un aspecto de mi vida sino en todos... sale mal...

Eso es algo que me cuesta manejar...

Cuando parece que hay algo bueno que viene y de repente y sin avisar... se complica...

Una y otra vez... y sólo por mi culpa...

El fantasma de Canterville...

continúa...

II

The storm raged fiercely all that night, but nothing of particular note occurred. The next morning, however, when they came down to breakfast, they found the terrible stain of blood once again on the floor. "I don't think it can be the fault of the Paragon Detergent," said Washington, "for I have tried it with everything. It must be the ghost." He accordingly rubbed out the stain a second time, but the second morning it appeared again. The third morning also it was there, though the library had been locked up at night by Mr. Otis himself, and the key carried up-stairs. The whole family were now quite interested; Mr. Otis began to suspect that he had been too dogmatic in his denial of the existence of ghosts, Mrs. Otis expressed her intention of joining the Psychical Society, and Washington prepared a long letter to Messrs. Myers and Podmore on the subject of the Permanence of Sanguineous Stains when connected with Crime. That night all doubts about the objective existence of phantasmata were removed for ever.

The day had been warm and sunny; and, in the cool of the evening, the whole family went out to drive. They did not return home till nine o'clock, when they had a light supper. The conversation in no way turned upon ghosts, so there were not even those primary conditions of receptive expectations which so often precede the presentation of psychical phenomena. The subjects discussed, as I have since learned from Mr. Otis, were merely such as form the ordinary conversation of cultured Americans of the better class, such as the immense superiority of Miss Fanny Devonport over Sarah Bernhardt as an actress; the difficulty of obtaining green corn, buckwheat cakes, and hominy, even in the best English houses; the importance of Boston in the development of the world-soul; the advantages of the baggage-check system in railway travelling; and the sweetness of the New York accent as compared to the London drawl. No mention at all was made of the supernatural, nor was Sir Simon de Canterville alluded to in any way. At eleven o'clock the family retired, and by half-past all the lights were out. Some time after, Mr. Otis was awakened by a curious noise in the corridor, outside his room. It sounded like the clank of metal, and seemed to be coming nearer every moment. He got up at once, struck a match, and looked at the time. It was exactly one o'clock. He was quite calm, and felt his pulse, which was not at all feverish. The strange noise still continued, and with it he heard distinctly the sound of footsteps. He put on his slippers, took a small oblong phial out of his dressing-case, and opened the door. Right in front of him he saw, in the wan moonlight, an old man of terrible aspect. His eyes were as red burning coals; long grey hair fell over his shoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were of antique cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his wrists and ankles hung heavy manacles and rusty gyves.

"My dear sir," said Mr. Otis, "I really must insist on your oiling those chains, and have brought you for that purpose a small bottle of the Tammany Rising Sun Lubricator. It is said to be completely efficacious upon one application, and there are several testimonials to that effect on the wrapper from some of our most eminent native divines. I shall leave it here for you by the bedroom candles, and will be happy to supply you with more, should you require it." With these words the United States Minister laid the bottle down on a marble table, and, closing his door, retired to rest.

For a moment the Canterville ghost stood quite motionless in natural indignation; then, dashing the bottle violently upon the polished floor, he fled down the corridor, uttering hollow groans, and emitting a ghastly green light. Just, however, as he reached the top of the great oak staircase, a door was flung open, two little white-robed figures appeared, and a large pillow whizzed past his head! There was evidently no time to be lost, so, hastily adopting the Fourth dimension of Space as a means of escape, he vanished through the wainscoting, and the house became quite quiet.

On reaching a small secret chamber in the left wing, he leaned up against a moonbeam to recover his breath, and began to try and realize his position. Never, in a brilliant and uninterrupted career of three hundred years, had he been so grossly insulted. He thought of the Dowager Duchess, whom he had frightened into a fit as she stood before the glass in her lace and diamonds; of the four housemaids, who had gone into hysterics when he merely grinned at them through the curtains on one of the spare bedrooms; of the rector of the parish, whose candle he had blown out as he was coming late one night from the library, and who had been under the care of Sir William Gull ever since, a perfect martyr to nervous disorders; and of old Madame de Tremouillac, who, having wakened up one morning early and seen a skeleton seated in an armchair by the fire reading her diary, had been confined to her bed for six weeks with an attack of brain fever, and, on her recovery, had become reconciled to the Church, and broken off her connection with that notorious sceptic, Monsieur de Voltaire. He remembered the terrible night when the wicked Lord Canterville was found choking in his dressing-room, with the knave of diamonds half-way down his throat, and confessed, just before he died, that he had cheated Charles James Fox out of £50,000 at Crockford's by means of that very card, and swore that the ghost had made him swallow it. All his great achievements came back to him again, from the butler who had shot himself in the pantry because he had seen a green hand tapping at the window-pane, to the beautiful Lady Stutfield, who was always obliged to wear a black velvet band round her throat to hide the mark of five fingers burnt upon her white skin, and who drowned herself at last in the carp-pond at the end of the King's Walk. With the enthusiastic egotism of the true artist, he went over his most celebrated performances, and smiled bitterly to himself as he recalled to mind his last appearance as "Red Reuben, or the Strangled Babe," his début as "Guant Gibeon, the Blood-sucker of Bexley Moor," and the furore he had excited one lovely June evening by merely playing ninepins with his own bones upon the lawn-tennis ground. And after all this some wretched modern Americans were to come and offer him the Rising Sun Lubricator, and throw pillows at his head! It was quite unbearable. Besides, no ghost in history had ever been treated in this manner. Accordingly, he determined to have vengeance, and remained till daylight in an attitude of deep thought.

Una historia que no me cansaría nunca de leer/escuchar...

The Canterville Ghost

Oscar Wilde

I

When Mr. Hiram B. Otis, the American Minister, bought Canterville Chase, every one told him he was doing a very foolish thing, as there was no doubt at all that the place was haunted. Indeed, Lord Canterville himself, who was a man of the most punctilious honour, had felt it his duty to mention the fact to Mr. Otis when they came to discuss terms.

"We have not cared to live in the place ourselves," said Lord Canterville, "since my grandaunt, the Dowager Duchess of Bolton, was frightened into a fit, from which she never really recovered, by two skeleton hands being placed on her shoulders as she was dressing for dinner, and I feel bound to tell you, Mr. Otis, that the ghost has been seen by several living members of my family, as well as by the rector of the parish, the Rev. Augustus Dampier, who is a Fellow of King's College, Cambridge. After the unfortunate accident to the Duchess, none of our younger servants would stay with us, and Lady Canterville often got very little sleep at night, in consequence of the mysterious noises that came from the corridor and the library."

"My Lord," answered the Minister, "I will take the furniture and the ghost at a valuation. I have come from a modern country, where we have everything that money can buy; and with all our spry young fellows painting the Old World red, and carrying off your best actors and prima-donnas, I reckon that if there were such a thing as a ghost in Europe, we'd have it at home in a very short time in one of our public museums, or on the road as a show."

"I fear that the ghost exists," said Lord Canterville, smiling, "though it may have resisted the overtures of your enterprising impresarios. It has been well known for three centuries, since 1584 in fact, and always makes its appearance before the death of any member of our family."

"Well, so does the family doctor for that matter, Lord Canterville. But there is no such thing, sir, as a ghost, and I guess the laws of Nature are not going to be suspended for the British aristocracy."

"You are certainly very natural in America," answered Lord Canterville, who did not quite understand Mr. Otis's last observation, "and if you don't mind a ghost in the house, it is all right. Only you must remember I warned you."

A few weeks after this, the purchase was concluded, and at the close of the season the Minister and his family went down to Canterville Chase. Mrs. Otis, who, as Miss Lucretia R. Tappan, of West 53d Street, had been a celebrated New York belle, was now a very handsome, middle-aged woman, with fine eyes, and a superb profile. Many American ladies on leaving their native land adopt an appearance of chronic ill-health, under the impression that it is a form of European refinement, but Mrs. Otis had never fallen into this error. She had a magnificent constitution, and a really wonderful amount of animal spirits. Indeed, in many respects, she was quite English, and was an excellent example of the fact that we have really everything in common with America nowadays, except, of course, language. Her eldest son, christened Washington by his parents in a moment of patriotism, which he never ceased to regret, was a fair-haired, rather good-looking young man, who had qualified himself for American diplomacy by leading the German at the Newport Casino for three successive seasons, and even in London was well known as an excellent dancer. Gardenias and the peerage were his only weaknesses. Otherwise he was extremely sensible. Miss Virginia E. Otis was a little girl of fifteen, lithe and lovely as a fawn, and with a fine freedom in her large blue eyes. She was a wonderful Amazon, and had once raced old Lord Bilton on her pony twice round the park, winning by a length and a half, just in front of the Achilles statue, to the huge delight of the young Duke of Cheshire, who proposed for her on the spot, and was sent back to Eton that very night by his guardians, in floods of tears. After Virginia came the twins, who were usually called "The Star and Stripes," as they were always getting swished. They were delightful boys, and, with the exception of the worthy Minister, the only true republicans of the family.

"How horrid!" cried Mrs. Otis; "I don't at all care for blood-stains in a sitting-room. It must be removed at once."

The old woman smiled, and answered in the same low, mysterious voice, "It is the blood of Lady Eleanore de Canterville, who was murdered on that very spot by her own husband, Sir Simon de Canterville, in 1575. Sir Simon survived her nine years, and disappeared suddenly under very mysterious circumstances. His body has never been discovered, but his guilty spirit still haunts the Chase. The blood-stain has been much admired by tourists and others, and cannot be removed."

"That is all nonsense," cried Washington Otis; "Pinkerton's Champion Stain Remover and Paragon Detergent will clean it up in no time," and before the terrified housekeeper could interfere, he had fallen upon his knees, and was rapidly scouring the floor with a small stick of what looked like a black cosmetic. In a few moments no trace of the blood-stain could be seen.

"I knew Pinkerton would do it," he exclaimed, triumphantly, as he looked round at his admiring family; but no sooner had he said these words than a terrible flash of lightning lit up the sombre room, a fearful peal of thunder made them all start to their feet, and Mrs. Umney fainted.

"What a monstrous climate!" said the American Minister, calmly, as he lit a long cheroot. "I guess the old country is so overpopulated that they have not enough decent weather for everybody. I have always been of opinion that emigration is the only thing for England."

"My dear Hiram," cried Mrs. Otis, "what can we do with a woman who faints?"

"Charge it to her like breakages," answered the Minister; "she won't faint after that;" and in a few moments Mrs. Umney certainly came to. There was no doubt, however, that she was extremely upset, and she sternly warned Mr. Otis to beware of some trouble coming to the house.

"I have seen things with my own eyes, sir," she said, "that would make any Christian's hair stand on end, and many and many a night I have not closed my eyes in sleep for the awful things that are done here." Mr. Otis, however, and his wife warmly assured the honest soul that they were not afraid of ghosts, and, after invoking the blessings of Providence on her new master and mistress, and making arrangements for an increase of salary, the old housekeeper tottered off to her own room.

As Canterville Chase is seven miles from Ascot, the nearest railway station, Mr. Otis had telegraphed for a waggonette to meet them, and they started on their drive in high spirits. It was a lovely July evening, and the air was delicate with the scent of the pinewoods. Now and then they heard a wood-pigeon brooding over its own sweet voice, or saw, deep in the rustling fern, the burnished breast of the pheasant. Little squirrels peered at them from the beech-trees as they went by, and the rabbits scudded away through the brushwood and over the mossy knolls, with their white tails in the air. As they entered the avenue of Canterville Chase, however, the sky became suddenly overcast with clouds, a curious stillness seemed to hold the atmosphere, a great flight of rooks passed silently over their heads, and, before they reached the house, some big drops of rain had fallen.

Standing on the steps to receive them was an old woman, neatly dressed in black silk, with a white cap and apron. This was Mrs. Umney, the housekeeper, whom Mrs. Otis, at Lady Canterville's earnest request, had consented to keep in her former position. She made them each a low curtsey as they alighted, and said in a quaint, old-fashioned manner, "I bid you welcome to Canterville Chase." Following her, they passed through the fine Tudor hall into the library, a long, low room, panelled in black oak, at the end of which was a large stained glass window. Here they found tea laid out for them, and, after taking off their wraps, they sat down and began to look round, while Mrs. Umney waited on them.

Suddenly Mrs. Otis caught sight of a dull red stain on the floor just by the fireplace, and, quite unconscious of what it really signified, said to Mrs. Umney, "I am afraid something has been spilt there."

"Yes, madam," replied the old housekeeper in a low voice, "blood has been spilt on that spot."

Por si a alguien le interesa: www.gutenberg.org
Excelente página... Muchos libros...

Esperar cosas de la gente no es sano...

Extraño ese sentimiento de tranquilidad...

Supongo que no te veré esta semana... Pero espero que disfrutes (y aproveches) mucho los días que tienes de "vacaciones"... Saludos amiga...

Una cosa más... Alguna memoria del pasado...

Yellow
Coldplay

Look at the stars,
Look how they shine for you,
And everything you do,
Yeah, they were all yellow.

I came along,
I wrote a song for you,
And all the things you do,
And it was called "Yellow".

So then I took my turn,
Oh what a thing to have done,
And it was all "Yellow."

Your skin,
Oh yeah your skin and bones,
Turn into something beautiful,
You know, you know I love you so,
You know I love you so.

I swam across,
I jumped across for you,
Oh what a thing to do.
Cos you were all "Yellow",
I drew a line,
I drew a line for you,
Oh what a thing to do,
And it was all "Yellow."

Your skin,
Oh yeah your skin and bones,
Turn into something beautiful,
And you know,
For you I'd bleed myself dry,
For you I'd bleed myself dry.

It's true,
Look how they shine for you,
Look how they shine for you,
Look how they shine for,
Look how they shine for you,
Look how they shine for you,
Look how they shine.
Look at the stars,
Look how they shine for you,
And all the things that you do.

Ya es febrero... Malas noticias... Yo no veo aún nada... será que mi destino está fuera de la ciencia??... O es que sólo se me quiere poner difícil para, al fin en el último mes, salga todo???... No sé... no me gusta pensar que así será... En fin... mejor no pensar y trabajar...

Me fui al neurólogo por petición de mis padres... digamos que se llevaron un susto con un dolor de cabeza durante las vacaciones... El médico me dio un par de chochos... El chocho #1 y el chocho #2 para no hacer el cuento largo... El chocho #1 por un mes cada 12 horas y el chocho #2 todas las noches... Así pasé 6 días... El 6o. día me dió un dolor de cabeza de esos que no te dejan levantarte... Mala idea porque debía presentar seminario... En fin... todo el 7o. día con dolor de cabeza... (Que me la quiten por favor!!!!)... A las 6 pm del 7o día... me fuí a sacar la tomografía que me pidió el médico... Llegué... -Firme Aquí por favor... Su pariente responsable también aquí por favor- (resulta que si no vas con alguien nada más no te hacen el estudio)... Canalización en el brazo... -Cuando le pongan el medio de contraste va a sentir caliente, pero no se me vaya a espantar-... Luego ya te meten en la máuina del tiempo... pasa el scan y listo... -Ya puede comer y tome mucha agua para eliminar el medio de contraste-... Saliendo del estudio le llamé al médico para decile que los chochos que me dió no me sirven para nada... -No te preocupes... el tratamiento básico sigue tomándolo, y cuando te den dolores de cabeza fuerte tómate el chocho #3-... Ok... chocho #3 funcionó de las mil maravillas... finalmente dormí!!!... Inicio del día 8... Resulta que algo me provocó una bonita intoxicación... Medio de contraste?... chocho #1, #2 ó #3???... Ahora Chocho #4 y chocho #5... (para reforzar, dijeron)... Y ya llevo dos días con la bendita intoxicación!!!... Ya quiero regresar a la normalidad!!!!... Estar así NO es divertido...

Más allá de eso... Mi madre fue finalmente a ver Narnia... A mí me gustó la película... casi como en el libro... algunos detalles que no me gustaron pero que así fueron escritos... Ya casi termino el libro #6... Yo creo que el viaje de vuelta a mi casa el día de hoy puede ser una buena opción para terminarlo...

Bueno pues... Como me dijeron alguna vez por aquí...

Buenos experimentos!...
Mejores resultados (y figuras!)...
Mil horas de lectura...
Sueño reparador...
Y todo el ánimo para trabajar!...

Buenos deseos para este mes...

Hoy es uno de esos días en los que sinceramente me siento como dirían las abuelitas: chipili... (jajajajaja)...

No es tristeza... no es flojera... pareciera una sensación de lejanía... melancolía tal vez...

Y en realidad por nada en particular...

Eso te pasa por abrir la boca...

Después de todo... ser "políticamente correcto" no es tan mala idea...

Las cosas que han pasado por mi cabeza el día de hoy...

Cuando venía camino a la Universidad escuché en el radio la canción de "American Woman"... interpretada en ese momento por The Guess Who... Me gusta esa canción... Luego recordé que la versión que hizo Lenny Kravitz no tiene ninguna queja...

Mis pensamientos saltaron a: "Paula diría que Lenny Kravitz es un buen camarón!... Jajajajajajajaja!!!!"...
(Supongo que con una bolsa en la cabeza no me quejaría!!!!)... Doble Jajajajajajajaja...

Más tarde sólo pensaba en que seguramente había cometido algún error al marcar uno de los geles del tipaje... No puede ser que no tengan el gen y no expresen MHC-II... Ok... debo rechecar...

Luego estuve en el citómetro... "Bendito Citómetro!!!... Supongo que no falla sólo porque soy novata".. Jajajaja...

Como a eso de las 3.30: "Tengo hambre!"...

Y un poco después: "Me gustan los champiñones... Yo creo que viviría de champiñones..."

Ahora mismo creo que el frío provoca simpleza...

A ver si ya me pongo a hacer algo más provechoso....

Nuevo Año... Nuevas cosas que hacer... que vivir... que compartir...

Mi Año Nuevo llegó con muchas cosas nuevas... Como ya lo mencioné he cambiado finalmente de proyecto... Ahora sólo tengo que trabajar mucho para poder obtener el grado de doctor en un año... Vaya lío... espero que todo camine bien y rápido...

También hubo cambios en la casa... mi madre cedió su recámara para hacerla oficina/estudio para mi papá y mi hermana... Tuvimos que mover todo, pintar, acomodar y todas esas cosas... Creo que va a quedar bien el lugar... Ya pensaré si me agandallaré alguna pared para colocar un librero... (En mi recámara ya no caben más libros!!!)... Ya veremos... También regresará a su lugar la sala y el comedor...

Con la familia todo va tranquilo... yo sinceramente espero que la racha complicada que ya llevabamos por como 4-5 años finalmente haya terminado...

De ahí en fuera... tengo que cambiar mi celular... Estoy sinceramente triste por ello... ese aparatito me gustaba mucho... además de que funcionaba de las mil maravillas (excepto porque la pila ya no aguantaba tanto como antes)... pero era un buen celular... viejito pero bueno... La razón por la que tendré que cambiarlo mejor no la escribo... jajajajaja... En fin... ya buscaré algún otro celular no tan sofisticado que funcione como el que tenía antes...

Qué más ha cambiado... ?...

Mi ánimo ha cambiado!!!... Creo que tengo un poco mejor ánimo que el año pasado... espero que siga así... o mejor!...

Hoy me dijeron que mi jefa ayer reclamó que no me ve con ánimo y que considera que no le estoy echando ganas al proyecto... Yo ayer le comenté que igual y metía como clase de este semestre un curso "ad hoc" con la doctora con la que estamos haciendo este proyecto... Su cara fue de "no me parece nada la idea" pero en realidad no me dijo nada más... Hoy en cambio llegó a decirme que metiera una carta que ella firmaría en donde dice que no llevaré más cursos de aquí hasta que termine el doctorado... Por mí mejor en realidad!... así no tengo que invertir tiempo en hacer tarea y leer artículos que no sean los que me sirven para el proyecto...

En fin... la verdad es que ya no me interesa sobremanera lo que piense ella y el comité... Mientras me dejen trabajar... ni yo me meto con ellos y espero que ellos no se metan conmigo...

Es un poco triste cuando ya lo tengo que escribir ( y pensar) de esa manera... pero ni modo...

Nuevo Año... vida nueva...

Ciao!...

Hoy es 26 de Diciembre!!! y estoy en casa de mi abuelo viendo caricaturas en lo que mi auto regresa del taller. Resulta que lo llevé la semana pasada a hacer la verificación y por azares del destino me asignaron una calcomanía 2 cuando tenía 0. Ahora se lo llevaron a arreglar y a volver a hacer la verificación. Ese día sin embargo salí sumamente enojada del centro de verificación porque me dijeron que mi auto tenía una infracción... de Enero!!!... (y me entero en diciembre!!!!)... Pero en realidad lo que me molestó es saber que es posible obtener una infracción y no enterarte, ya que no es necesario que te den la boleta de multa...

En fin...

Hace unos días dije que me gustaba la época navideña porque era tiempo de compartir tiempo con mucha gente... En realidad me gusta... Mi madre dice que nosotras adquirimos esas costumbres de mi abuela... yo creo que es cierto... es como si ella estuviera al lado nuestro cuando arreglamos el árbol en su casa y el nacimiento... Eso me gusta...

Lo que no me gusta y sinceramente este año mi límite esta cerca... es la discusión entre mis papás por "dónde pasaremos Navidad y dónde Año Nuevo?... con tu familia o mi familia?... Y luego el problema se va más allá hasta llegar a situaciones de "no me limites" o "no piensas en que yo todavía tengo un padre con el que quiero estar"... Y luego nosotros qué???... mi hermana y yo nos quedamos en medio de los dos preguntándo... "y ahora con quién nos vamos??"... cualquier decisión implica que uno de ellos termine "sentido"...

Volados?... rifas?... acuerdos???... de qué sirven si siempre terminan uno y otro haciendo lo que quieren?!?!?...

Lo único que creo es que acuerdos son acuerdos... y que si cuando se hacen los acuerdos, no se dice todo lo que se quiere... después no hay manera de reclamar al respecto...

No sé si ellos lo entiendan pero yo ya me cansé de decirlo...

Más allá de las quejas...

Me gustaron los regalos... Gracias por tener en cuenta aquello que hace tiempo se comentó...

Por cierto... es Delgadillo... Fernando Delgadillo... después de todo... que cada quien haga lo que le guste no es tan mala idea después de todo... cierto?...

Amiga... gracias por estar con nosotros en estas fechas... sinceramente espero que las cosas mejoren pronto... al menos que caminen de manera que te sientas tranquila con ello... Lo mereces!... Y bueno... sabes que estás cordialmente invitada a la cena de Año Nuevo...

Y pues nada más... Feliz Navidad y un excelente año nuevo para todos!!!... Piensen muy bien sus deseos para el próximo año... (yo todavía sigo esperando una copia del Gladiador... chance y los Reyes si tienen espacio para traermelo!)

Saludos!...

Diferencias de Idioma

Hace algunos días platicaba con mi papá al respecto de convivir con alguien que no habla tu idioma... Él decía que los extranjeros (conquistadores) no se mezclaban con los conquistados por el hecho de que eran de alguna manera "razas distintas"... Yo le dije que si eso no ocurría en la actualidad (cosa que sí ocurre y aquí cerca tengo un claro ejemplo)... era porque existían diferencias en los usos y costumbres de la gente... y que a veces era difícil mediar esas situaciones... Aclaro... No imposible...

Pero sinceramente me parece un poco triste que existan ese tipo de diferencias... sobretodo cuando las diferencias van más allá de "razas" sino de idioma...

Estos días han sido un tanto complicados... Después de la decisión de dejar el proyecto por la paz, estoy empezando a leer nuevas cosas sobre nuevos asuntos... He empezado a hacer un par de experimentos y por qué no?... también he tenido muuucho tiempo para pensar en otras cosas...

Una de esas cosas ha sido todo el rollo de los festejos navideños, los regalos, las posadas... etc, etc...

A mi me gusta mucho la navidad... no creo que sea por lo que significa la navidad como tal, sino que creo que siempre ha sido (en mi caso) una oportunidad para convivir... con la familia, con amigos, con las personas con las que te topas en la calle... e incluso con personas que ya no están...

Temporada melancólica?... Sí... siempre para mí... En estos días pienso mucho en todo y en todos... Me gusta recordar momentos que pasé con otros... Pero eso es un problema, porque generalmente viene a mi cabeza un sentimiento chistoso... tristeza y alegría al mismo tiempo...

También me he dado cuenta cuántas cosas han cambiado desde entonces... He aquí el problema existencial... Creo que siempre he sido aprehensiva con respecto a cosas que me gustan y que me encantaría compartir... En este caso fue el "espíritu navideño" (si es que hay que llamarlo de alguna manera)... pero en realidad han sido infinidad de cosas más...

Hace ya algunos años... (con todo el rollo de la muerte de mi abuela y luego de mis tíos y de mi abuelo)... que mi "espíritu navideño) simplemente no quiere asomar la nariz... Al final siempre termina por salir aunque se hace el difícil por un rato... Pero lo que definitivamente no le gusta es que de repente le pongan un muro enfrente... como cuando vas corriendo por la calle y de repente se te cruza alguien o algo (un poste por ejemplo)... y terminas embarrado en él... (ouch!)...

Y es que ayer la conclusión fue que el "espiritu navideño"... no se contagia...

Es como en el cuento de Navidad del señor Charles Dickens... Benditos espíritus de las navidades que van y convencen al señor Ebenezer Scrooge!!!...

Pero la realidad es que hoy en día a los espírutus no les alcanza el tiempo para visitar y convencer a toda la gente que "no tiene tiempo" para pensar en asuntos navideños...

En fin... dejémos de hacer drama (mira que se me da muy bien) y dejemos a cada quien con su cada cual...

Mi crónica de un tutoral...

El martes pasado fue mi tutoral de este semestre... sólo diré que me fue mal y bien...

Mal... porque como siempre, lo tutores (aunque no todos) se ponen pesados...

Bien... porque finalmente dejaré de pelearme con la expresión de las benditas quimeras y los dimerizadores... Aunque tengo que decir que justo en este punto tengo sentimientos encontrados... porque estoy feliz de librarme de eso... pero también me siento triste porque es mucho tiempo, trabajo y esfuerzo el que había invertido en ese proyecto... En fin... supongo que al final es tranquilidad el sentimiento mayoritario...

Con respecto al primer punto... Hace algún tiempo platicaba con dos amigos al respecto de la "castidad" de la ciencia... Uno de ellos pensaba que la ciencia debía en principio estar excenta de rollos burocráticos y situaciones de "amiguitos, amiguitos"... En ese entonces lo taché de ingenuo, aunque nos pareció sinceramente triste que eso fuera una realidad...

Ahora después de mi tutorial aprendí una cosa más al respecto de la ciencia y que también me parece triste... Y es que los "investigadores" piensan más con el estómago que con la cabeza... Ingenua yo!!!... Pero es que acaso no es obvio que la ciencia al final de cuentas está hecha por humanos???... Ni modo...

Por otro lado lo que sí creo que es injusto y que no debería pasar... es que los "tutores" quieran enseñar a los nuevos a base de hacerlos sentir chinche (sin ofender a esos bichitos)... y sólo por el hecho de que a ellos les fue así en algún momento...

Más cosas de ciencia?... No sé... muchas cosas que al fin de cuentas me obligan a remeditar sobre mi futuro por estos lares... En fin... me gusta... y mucho... pero cuando el vaso llega al límite... termina siempre por derramarse...

Sí, ya lo sé!!!... había dejado por la paz el asunto de los blogs dado que venía siendo causa de malos entendidos y conflictos... en mi opinión... inecesarios...

La idea de este blog en sus inicios es que sería un espacio en el que podía desahogarme de todas mis penas, enojos y berrinches... (Cabe mencionar que previamente tenía una libretita sugerida por mi psicoloca que tenía ese fin)... Pero claro... la idea de tener un blog fue al fin de cuentas una idea tentadora y caí... Primero fue totalmente privado... luego un par de amigos (los más cercanos) se enteraron y ya después esto no tuvo fin...

Ahora mismo creo que este blog es simplemente un sitio para estar en contacto con personajes que veo poco o no veo... y justo por eso decidí volver a las andadas...

Pero creo que por salud mental (por supuesto mía!)... mi mundo en paralelo seguirá en paralelo y no por aquí...

Y bueno... habiendo expresado mis ideas (Jajajajajajaja)...

Sólo una más...

Acabo de ver Cinderella Man... Me gustó... muuucho... es una lástima que no la haya visto en el cine... pero ni modo... Lo único que no me quedaré con ganas de decir es...

Definitivamente me fescina Russell Crowe!!!... el señor es un encanto... Me pregunto si podría pedir para Navidad o Reyes uno de esos?... Considerará alguno de ellos que me he portado lo suficientemente bien como para que me lo traigan?...

Por favor, por favor, por favor????...

Hoy... después de obtener por segunda vez células de médula ósea verdes... y del coraje que mi jefa amablemente me hizo pasar... decidí ir a casa a dormir temprano...

Lo malo es que cuando llegué, mi hermana me convenció para ver un rato televisión... (decía, venía yo como gato espantado)... así que nos pusimos tranquilamente a ver una película llamada "El tren de las 4.50"... del libro "4.50 From Paddington" de Agatha Christie (de mis favoritas!)... La verdad es que me quedé dormida... (buuuuu)... y es que además de haber visto esa película ya unas cuantas veces antes... enojarme de esa manera curiosamente me agota mucho... (sí, ya lo sé... suena ridículo... pero ni modo)...

Ya después... llegó el novio de mi hermana y me dejó medio dormida viendo "Cuatro Bodas y un Funeral"... Creo que nunca había llegado al final... Película curiosa en mi opinión... un poco cursi... pero entretenida...

Al final del día lo interesante del asunto fue haber recordado con el tema final de la película mis años mozos en la secundaria... Jajajajaja... Pero sobretodo y particularmente... a un ex-galán cuyo hobbie era escuchar música de antaño... (Creo que alguna vez llevó a mi casa varios LP's y organizamos una sesión de música viejita)... Él me grabó varios cassettes con diversos temas... entre ellos justo el que escuché al final de la película...

Love is all around
Wet Wet Wet

I feel it in my fingers
I feel it in my toes
Love is all around me
And so the feeling grows

It’s written on the wind
It’s everywhere I go, oh yes it is
So if you really love me
Come on and let it show

You know I love you
I always will
My mind’s made up
By the way that I feel
There’s no beginning
There’ll be no end
‘Cause on my love
You can depend

I see your face before me
As I lay on my bed
I kinda get to thinking
Of all the things you said, oh yes I did
You gave your promise to me
And I gave mine to you
I need someone beside me
In everything I do, oh yes I do

You know I love you
I always will
My mind’s made up
By the way that I feel
There’s no beginning
There’ll be no end
‘Cause on my love
You can depend

Ooh, it’s written in the wind
And where I go
So if you really love me
Come on and let it show

Come on and let it show...

Cosas curiosas las que suceden de repente...
Vaya que era cursi entonces!!!...
a lo mejor es que la dejé olvidada en algún lugar...
Jajajajaja...

Hoy mi jefa se molestó porque no la esperé para pasar unas muestras por el citómetro... se molestó y además me lo reclamó...

Me siento sinceramente incómoda... y es que por un lado es cierto... habíamos quedado que pasasría las muestras conmigo... Pero también por otro lado estaba en clase... tenía que ir al bioterio a hacer limpieza y además su esposo me dijo que se irían a las 2 pm... Además de que no era sólo yo la única interesada en pasar las muestras por el FACS... se supone que este experimento es parte de un proyecto en colaboración con otro grupo... En fin... todo este choro pareciera ser para lavarme el coco y hacerme sentir menos mal porque no esperé a mi jefa... Pero creo que al final... no sirvió de nada...

En fin... de nuevo...

Sweet Passages
Chip Marks

Ya estuvo bueno de malas rachas!!!...

Esta semana salieron un par de experimentos que sinceramente me pusieron muy contenta... Creo que al final eso es lo malo de la ciencia... o tal vez de la gente obsesiva como yo... Un resultado positivo siempre me da suficiente energía como para trabajar "50 horas al día y fines de semana"...

El martes pasado me tocó presentar mi proyecto en el seminario que hacemos entre mi laboratorio y el laboratorio del esposo de mi jefa... Un día antes no tenía la más pálida idea de qué iba presentar dado que no tenía nada nuevo... Pero para cuando estuve parada frente a todos... les he echado tal choro mareador... que hasta parecía que estaba trabajando... Jajajajajaja... (Ese es uno de los grandes conocimientos que se adquieren en el doctorado)... Al final recordé los experimentos que hice durante las vacaciones y con lo que decidí que esa parte del proyecto se iba a la basura... luego... les platiqué que estaba intentando hacer esos ensayos en otra línea celular pero que primero estaba estandarizando todas las condiciones de estimulación antes de aventarme a hacer todos los ensayos funcionales... Luego les platiqué de los ensayos que estabamos haciendo para expresar las benditas quimeras en las células de médula ósea y todos los problemas que estaba teniendo... claro que también lo que estaba haciendo para resolverlos... Al final también les dije que en mis ratos de ocio me dedicaba a hacer clonaciones en otros plásmidos; tinciones y PCR's para un segundo proyecto (el proyecto que amablemente mi jefa me dio para titularme en dado que el original no camine)... y también que estabamos planeando hacer unos cuantos ensayos para ver moléculas de señalización en células reguladoras (tercer proyecto en puerta)...

Algunas cosas que pasaron por mi cabeza al presentar el seminario:
- Poner cara de linda persona...
- No sé por qué me sigue sorprendiendo que el Doctor (el esposo de mi jefa) no recuerde estos datos que ha visto ya (se supone) al menos 3 veces...
- Pero qué necia es esta mujer!!!... (Jajajajaja!!!!)
- Creo que los convencí!!! (JAJAJAJAJAJAJAJAJAJAJA!!!!!!)

Más allá de los asuntos del laboratorio...

La mamá de mi conciencia #1 se accidentó... uno de esos accidentes que no deberían de suceder pero que ocurren y muy seguido... Espero que se mejore pronto!... Si necesitan cualquier cosa, me dices, eh!... (Para estos casos ahora tenemos un médico ortopedista en la familia!!! Jajajajaja!)

Mi auto también se murió!!!!... (Bua bua bua!!!...) Al parecer tiene un corto en el encendido... ayer se fue también al taller... Lo malo es que tuvimos que arrastrarlo con la camioneta... Bendito arrastre!!! pesa una tonelada!!!...

Me gustan las caricaturas!!!... Vi el otro día Chicken Little... creo que me gustó tanto como Los Increíbles... Gracias por la invitación! =)

Por cierto... muy importante... Gracias por recordarme el libro azul... lo tenía olvidado por ahí entre todos los libros... gracias por el consejo y por estar ahí...

Definitivamente me gusta Tracy Chapman... el nuevo disco está realmente bueno... =D

Change
Tracy Chapman

If you knew that you would die today
If you saw the face of God and Love
Would you change?
Would you change?
If you knew that love can break your heart
When you're down so low you cannot fall
Would you change?
Would you change?

How bad how good does it need to get?
How many losses how much regret?
What chain reaction
What cause and effect
Makes you turn around
Makes you try to explain
Makes you forgive and forget
Makes you change
Makes you change

If you knew that you would be alone
Knowing right being wrong
Would you change?
Would you change?
If you knew that you would find a truth
That brings a pain that can't be soothed
Would you change?
Would you change?

How bad how good does it need to get?
How many losses how much regret?
What chain reaction
What cause and effect
Makes you turn around
Makes you try to explain
Makes you forgive and forget
Makes you change
Makes you change

Are you so upright you can't be bent
if it comes to blows
Are you so sure you won't be crawling
If not for the good why risk falling
Why risk falling

If everything you think you know
Makes your life unbearable
Would you change?
Would you change?
If you'd broken every rule and vow
And hard times come to bring you down
Would you change?
Would you change?

If you knew that you would die today
If you saw the face of God and Love
Would you change?
Would you change?

Ya estoy cansada!!!!...

Definitivamente me siento agotada de lidiar siempre con lo mismo... Añoro sinceramente vivir en paz... trabajar en paz... estar en paz... conmigo y con el mundo...

Estoy cansada de ser políticamente correcta y poner linda cara cuando me lleva el diablo... de estar pensando en "si hago esto/digo esto... seguro que va a arder troya"... de planear cada cosa... de estar esperando cambios que, por favor!... pobre niña ingenua... no sucederán...

Hace unos días una de mis mejores amigas decía eso... por qué simplemente no volver a la infancia donde todo era lindo y no había más que portarse bien para que vinieran los reyes magos o el ratón de los dientes... cuando todavía soñaba con ser princesa y encontrar al príncipe encantado... (lo siento, veía muchas películas de Disney)... cuando todavía se podía volar sin tener alas... cuando no había ninguna responsabilidad moral al salir por la ventana a Nunca Jamás...

En fin...
Una idea más al viento... al menos me hace sentir mejor...

Me gusta el día de muertos... me gusta más que otras tradiciones mexicanas... supongo que hay muchas razones...

Me gusta recordar a los que ya no están... me gusta además ir al mercado a comprar todo lo necesario para poner la ofrenda... El papel picado, la fruta, las velas, el incienso, el pan, las calaveras, las flores... En fin... muchas, muchas cosas...

Pero creo que lo que más me gusta es compartir esta tradición con todos, pero sobretodo con los niños... Me sorprenden una y otra vez que con sus interpretaciones, sus recuerdos y su imaginación...

Vaya día... me divertí como enana...

Me gusta soñar... me gusta imaginar que las cosas suceden... no como en las películas... pero cercano a la fantasía... (eso pasa cuando uno lee historias de hadas, princesas, caballeros y dragones)... Hace no demasiado tiempo alguien me dijo que no se necesitan alas para volar... Esa persona es fan de Silvio Rodríguez... hace poco escuché la canción...

No hacen falta alas
Silvio Rodríguez

No hacen falta alas
para hacer un sueño
basta con las manos
basta con el pecho
basta con las piernas
y con el empeño.

No hacen falta alas
para ser más bellos
basta el buen sentido
del amor inmenso
no hacen falta alas
para alzar el vuelo.

Si...
Recojo fondos para pobres de amistad y de sonrisa
recojo cuanto haya de bien en lo que esconde tu camisa
acepto cuanto pueda ser útil al coro que compongo
siempre que quieras compartir un sueño ancho, largo y hondo.
Oh...

Recojo el hielo a la deriva de los poros congelados
luego con buena voluntad y mucha miel haré un helado
no le daré, no le daré al mentiroso y al cobarde
repartiré, repartiré sólo al que ama y al que arde.
Oh...

No hacen falta alas
para hacer un sueño
basta con las manos
basta con el pecho
basta con las piernas
y con el empeño.

No hacen falta alas
para ser más bellos
basta el buen sentido
del amor inmenso
no hacen falta alas
para alzar el vuelo.

Recojo fondos para pobres de amistad y de sonrisa
recojo cuanto haya de bien en lo que esconde tu camisa
acepto cuanto pueda ser útil al coro que compongo
siempre que quieras compartir un sueño ancho, largo y hondo.
Oh...

Recojo el hielo a la deriva de los poros congelados
luego con buena voluntad y mucha miel haré un helado
no le daré, no le daré al mentiroso y al cobarde
repartiré, repartiré sólo al que ama y al que arde.
Oh...

¡Vengan los buenos a comer de este helado gigante!

Yo tambien quiero volar... ya tengo ganas de hacer otras cosas... de pensar en otras cosas...
de simplemente de tener tiempo para estar...

Yo sé que todo el mundo tenemos algo de egoísta... en mayor o menor grado...
Pero cuando esa situación se va al extremo por largos períodos de tiempo... puede sinceramente hacerme perder la paciencia...

Hoy ocurrieron un par de esas situaciones en las que alguien cree que todo gira alrededor de esa persona y que todo el resto de los pobres mortales deben de estar para cuando se le ocurra...

Lo siento... pero no...

Por otro lado... recibí entre ayer y hoy dos buenos consejos...

Creo que los voy a seguir...
Gracias!!!!

I'm Happy Just to Dance with You
The Beatles

Before this dance is through,
I think I’ll love you too,
I’m so happy when you dance with me.
I don’t wanna kiss or hold your hand,
If it’s funny, try an’ understand.
There is nothing else I’d rather do,
‘Cos I’m happy just to dance with you.
I don’t need to hug or hold you tight,
I just wanna dance with you all night,
In this world there’s nothing I would rather do,
‘Cos I’m happy just to dance with you.
Just to dance with you is everything I need,
Before this dance is through,
I think I’ll love you too,
I’m so happy when you dance with me.
If somebody tries to take my place,
Let’s pretend, we just can’t see his face.
In this world there’s nothing I would rather do,
‘Cos I’m happy just to dance with you.
Just to dance with you is everything I need,
Before this dance is through,
I think I’ll love you too,
I’m so happy when you dance with me.
If somebody tries to take my place,
Let’s pretend, we just can’t see his face.
In this world there’s nothing I would rather do,
I’ve discovered I’m in love with you.
Oh, oh ‘cos I’m happy just to dance with you.
Oh, oh.

Recibí la carta de una amiga de la secundaria... Una de mis mejores amigas en ese entonces... Ella vivía en la misma colonia que yo, así que muchas tardes la pasabamos o en su casa o en mi casa o paseando a su perro por el parque... Se llama Ursula... Hace muchos años (dígase casi desde que me mudé a la ciudad) que no la veo, ni a su hermano que también iba en nuestro salón... Ella sigue viviendo en la misma casa y nosotros todavía tenemos la casa en Querétaro... así que mi papá y ella se encontraron por casualidad...

Como dije... hoy recibí una carta de ella... y tengo que decir que lloré... Jajajajaja.... lloré de gusto de saber que a pesar de que ha pasado mucho tiempo... seguimos siendo las mismas amigas que hace años (no diré cuántos porque me siento anciana)...

Lo mismo pasó hace ya unos meses con otro de mis mejores amigos también de la secundaria... apareció un día por CU... Ahora él está en Argentina estudiando... y espero próximamente ir a visitarlo para platicar todo eso que no tuvimos tiempo de platicar...

Me siento sinceramente contenta de tenerlos ahí... lejos pero cerca al mismo tiempo...

(Graaaaan sonrisa)...

Softer-Breathes

Chip Marks

http://www.triberadio.com/

Hoy me siento triste...
siento como si me cayera en pedacitos...

Hablando de abuelos...

Es raro pensar que cuando los abuelos se van, el resto del mundo deba seguir adelante... aún cuando para algunos... esto implique cambios sinceramente difíciles...

La casa de mi abuela
Fernando Delgadillo

Las visitas a mi abuela
Me gustaban de mañana
Con ese modesto encanto
De un almuerzo familiar
Con un sol siempre asomado
En la boca de las ventanas
Despintando año con año
Las paredes del solar.

Y en un rincón del jardín
Donde crecen las gladiolas
Se maduran lentamente
Los botones y las horas.
Los muros y sus rincones
Visten musgo y otras cosas
Cosas para las que el tiempo
Pasa, pero se demora.

En la casa de mi abuela
Los muebles huelen a antaño
Porque desde que recuerdo
se han sentado ahí los años
y mi abuela los ha visto
como nunca los vi yo
ocupando unos lugares
que la familia dejó.

En la casa de mi abuela
Los retratos se codean
Se hacen de los reconeos
Y en los muros, cuchichean.
Siempre encuentro conocido
El cuadro de algún familiar
Rostros jóvenes de viejos
Que fueron quedando atrás.
Cuando acaba la mañana
Y en la casa de mi abuela
Todo el aire vespertino
Trae al patio por la puerta
Y en un rincón del jardín
Donde crecen las gladiolas
Se maduran suavemente
Los botones y las horas.

Me hallé en casa de mi abuela
Desde niño la manía
De admirar las pertenencias
Que fueron de la familia.
Sombreros, muñecas, ropa
Cartas, cajones cerrados
Cada objeto es un tesoro
De secretos olvidados.

De preguntas sin respuestas
Está lleno su ropero
De ropa limpia y doblada
Fotos, llaves y recuerdos
De respuestas sin preguntas
Se ha llenado el tocador
Y un espejo que le enseña
Lo que el tiempo le aguardó.

La tarde sabe a nostalgia
En la casa de mi abuela
Cuando plancha y yo pregunto
Cuando llora y se recuerda
Y en un rincón crecen las gladiolas
Se maduran dulcemente
Los botones y las horas.

Cuando el sol se está ocultando
La luz tardía se recuesta
Las sombras se alargan tanto
Que trepan por la pared
Cada objeto crea una mancha
Que cruza la casa vieja
Concediendo a lo que toca
La ansiedad que da la sed.

En la casa de mi abuela
Existe un cuarto de visitas
Para darle al que ha llegado
Un sitio donde pueda estar
Donde acude a cada noche
Ese silencio que lo habita
Porque hace mucho que nadie
Se ha quedado a descansar.

Cuando la noche se asoma
Y en la casa de mi abuela
Se entrecierran las ventanas
Y los ruidos se develan
Todo en sombras murmurantes
Y crujidos de madera
Que nunca se acomodaron
Y nunca han estado quietas.

Conforme pasas las horas
Hasta el viento tiene pena
De aplacarse en esta noche
De extraña movilidad
Sin sentir la expectativa
Fue en la casa de mi abuela
Donde se mueve el encanto
Que nos trae oscuridad.

Desde el jardín de la casa
veo su mole silenciosa
escondido en sus pasillos
sombras que vienen y van
veo a gente que la habitaba
me veo yo, cuando era niño
todo se marchó dejando
a mi abuela y los que no están.

Veo de niño su ternura
Todo ese amor que regó
Con la paciencia y dulzura
Que cultiva el sembrador
Y en su rincón del jardín
Donde crecen las gladiolas
Se maduran tardíamente
Los botones y las horas.

Hoy la casa tiene un cuento
Que recorre los pasillos
Que habla lo que va pensando
Y que olvidó que tiene edad
Y al pensarlo me pregunto
Me pregunto y me repito
¿Cómo entrar en esta casa
si mi abuela, un día no está?

Esta nota se publicó en la Editorial de la revista Nature Medicine el mes pasado...



Nature Medicine 11, 907 (2005)
doi:10.1038/nm0905-907

Physician, heal thyself

"Mr. President is a rancher, ignorant about the way science is made. For him, to understand that science is a fundamental part of the country's culture is practically impossible." This assertion was made last July by Antonio Peña, past president of the Mexican Academy of Sciences, to criticize his government's limited support for science. Peña's statement is typical of what many scientists in countries wealthy enough to spend on research but not fully developed—nations sometimes referred to as 'emerging economies'—say about the paltry support their work receives. But researchers in these countries seldom reflect on whether they are doing their part to earn the money they so zealously demand.

In 2005, the annual budget of the Consejo Nacional de Ciencia y Tecnología, Mexico's main science-funding body, was about $800 million. This amount pales in comparison to the budget of the US National Institutes of Health, which is 35 times larger at $28 billion. But factor in the number of scientists in each country, and this difference in funding is not as substantial.

Depending on the source (the government or the scientists) and on the definition of scientist (academics doing any type of research or scientists receiving federal funds), there are quite disparate figures—between 10 and 100 times fewer scientists in Mexico than in the US. Thus, the amount of money available per scientist in the two countries turns out to be rather similar. In fact, a visit to almost any of the research institutes of the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, the largest university in the country and one of the largest in the world, illustrates this conclusion: the quality of their equipment rivals what one finds in US universities and is often better than what can be found in Europe.

Why is there such a large difference in the volume and impact of scientific output per capita between Mexico and the US? Mexican scientists are quick to point out many reasons besides the lack of money: the absence of a critical mass of researchers to create a strong scientific culture, the bureaucratic obstacles to importing reagents from abroad, the perceived discrimination of their work by scientific journals, and so on. Although these issues may be relevant to determining research output, there are other factors that must be taken into account to understand the scientific performance of countries like Mexico and the lack of governmental support for research.

First, in the US, postdocs drive the productivity of most labs. In Mexico, graduate and even undergraduate students bear the weight of most projects, as the country does not offer an academic atmosphere suitable to attract postdocs. Thus, differences in human, not financial, resources account for an important part of the gap between scientifically developed and emerging countries.

Some might argue that the difference in human resources simply mirrors the lack of available money—if there are no funds, how can we recruit postdocs? However, many US labs do not spend too much on postdocs, who often bring their own fellowships. Mexico itself has invested millions of dollars in postdoctoral fellowships of trainees who rarely stay in the country. Scientists should therefore switch their focus from blaming a lack of money for human resource development to creating an atmosphere that attracts both domestic and foreign postdocs.

Second, looking at the published scientific output of Mexico, it can be seen that many of the projects that have been funded lack originality. In many cases, they do not try to answer an original question but instead aim to provide evidence that an observation made by others is also true in one's favorite experimental system—'me-too' science.

This attitude, which has put a clamp on creative thinking and greatly limited the proliferation of innovative ideas, has not been seriously criticized by Mexican funding agencies or by the scientists themselves—no one ever wonders if what scientists are doing is novel enough to lead to a patent or to some clinical application. Ironically, this lack of interest has been partly fostered by the scientists themselves: any suggestion that they pay more attention to the applicability of what they do has always been received with hostility. The phrase 'applied science' is anathema for many Mexican scientists, and as a result, innovation has taken a back seat to the comfort of doing confirmatory science.

But times are changing, and the increased awareness of the commercial potential of biology is leading to a global push for translating academic research into technological advances. For institutions in the US, the potential of scientific discoveries to generate revenue has a priority higher than ever. In Mexico, technology-transfer offices and partnerships between academia and industry are virtually nonexistent. If scientists ask their government to invest more in science, is the government not entitled to ask what the return on its investment is?

This does not mean that basic science has no room in the modern world—quite the opposite, as it is basic research that often fuels technological advances. Nor does it mean that scientists in Mexico (and in other emerging nations that might recognize themselves in the above paragraphs) should accept the status quo and welcome whatever crumbs fall from the government's table. Researchers must continue to make their voices heard, but the verbal attacks and name-calling they sometimes use to make their case simply will not do. This strategy needs to give way to a new discourse on innovation and the benefits that come with it. This is a language that even 'a rancher' will understand.

Qué tal?... Problema de quién y cómo resolverlo?...

Hoy es un día lluvioso... desde temprano ha estado así...

No es tormenta ni es llovizna....

es una ligera lluvia constante...

Y es que cuando los días se ponen así... me acuerdo de algo que me dijeron hace mucho...

"California llora"...

Yo creo que hoy la Ciudad está llorando... no sé por qué... pero llora...

Hoy mi conciencia No. 1 y yo fuimos a un curso de "Introducción a la meditación"... Curso que tomará dos domingos, dos horas cada día... La "clase" estuvo... curiosa... Pa' variar llegamos tarde porque nos perdimos... ya luego empezamos con la explicación de qué es la meditación... después de un rato y varias preguntas... comenzamos con las diferentes posiciones... "flor de loto", "media flor de loto", "cuarto de flor de loto" y una que no creo (o no me acuerdo) que nos hayan dicho cómo se llamaba... De mayor a menor grado de dificultad... Me sorprendí!... jajajajaja... pude hacer todas!!!... (sólo que no creo que pudiera mantener por mucho tiempo las más difíciles)... Luego la respiración... como cuando estaba en el coro de la escuela... "Hay que respirar con el abdómen y no con los pulmones"... Luego se supone que debes concentrarte en la respiración y pensar en eso y sólo eso... Cosa complicada... Primero los sonidos de la calle y los vecinos... luego el no perder la cuenta... (se cuenta del 5 al 0, una y otra vez)... luego todos los pensamientos que pasan por la cabeza... Muchas ideas... aunque la más recurrente siempre fue: "Mira... podría aplicar esto de la concentración cuando mi jefa me esté regañando por una de esas tantas cosas que se le ocurren"....

En fin... me parece que independientemente de que me vuelva budista algún día... es una experiencia interesante... Como también l0 es el asunto de las visitas al Petrus a las Catas de vino... (Borracha!!!)... jajajajaja....

Ciao!