A Booksmith Journal

For graphic designers, booklovers or just lovers of Typograhpy, this great short stop motion movie gives us a glimpse of the rich History of these guys. Made by  http://forrestmedia.org

What follows is not necessarily another boring dissertation about me, or a ego-panegyric. It's my first attempt of writing a short story. Excuse my English. -------------- A Nootka On an evening without wind, lying against a tree, John trembled and awaited anxiously. He wasn't siting directly on the ground: a layer of white and something that might be a pinecone came before the humid soil. From there, he could still see the shore line and the endless ocean upon it. The destroyed tall ship and the ones that would never come to rescue him could find shelter on that bay. People from the tribe were approaching in silence. He lost track of time a while ago, but it must been more than two years, and by now he knew everyone's name. An old man was climbing slowly but effortlessly. By the time they both were face to face, John couldn't tremble anymore, a strange resignation was given to him while they look at each others eyes. The Chief held his cane on one hand and t

I never wore a suit to grieve. Too expensive. Not worth it, and I will stand for that. If I ever die, put me in a coffin with short pants and flip flops. To be dressed properly it won't fade the fact that I would probably have died from a ridiculous reason such as being ran over by a rickshaw. But last week, I sent my only suit to the dry-cleaner for the first time. When I meet Fabio, we spoke in “Portuñol”, which is a meet-me-in-the-middle option for Spanish and Portuguese speakers who doesn't know each other language. It was two years ago, and he came to learn English, but with no basic knowledge of it. Nothing, nada. Even with such a barrier ahead, he made tons of friends in just a couple of months. He arrived in September and by Christmas eve, he was in the conundrum of picking one of the many dinner invitations he got from friends and acquaintances. The secret: being completely fearless of English language. It was a learning process: Honey is not the same as horny, sweet

I came back from home less than a month ago. My dad was diagnosed with a severe heart condition and I went there to support him and the rest of the family on the surgery. It was late August when I found out, and in less than 48 hours I was in Toronto, killing eight hours of endless time  before my next flight. Eight hours is a lot when your mind works feed by anxiety and emotions. Two years ago, shortly after I began my journey in Canada, my parents moved from the small condo I lived almost my entire life into a larger house, in what could be called the suburbs, which are quite endless considering the size of Buenos Aires. The moving, my trip. For a nostalgic person like me, those two events drew a line in my life. Youth was comming to an end; adulthood was inevitable. When I landed for the first time in Toronto's airport I had nothing but a backpack, a girlfriend and some money. We lived there two months before moving to Winnipeg. Sorry, I don't have a picture at

The main reason why it took me so long to write is the author itself. Hemingway will be among the most hypnotically personalities that literature ever had. I am no literary critic, nor an expert. Just a person who likes reading. But there's something deep in my mind that puts together some authors. For me, Hemingway shares a large room, smoky and poorly furnished, with Roberto Arlt, Edgar Poe, Lord Byron, Ambrose Bierce and José Martí. I'm not going to explain the reasons, but they are definitely not just literary ones. Hemingway dedicated the novel to his third wife, Martha Gellhorn. Photo: hemingway and Gellhorn in China. Hemingway spent most of the 1920's in Paris with his first wife and the lost generation gang, who used to gather at Shakespeare and Cía.: Ezra Pound, Getrude Stein, Faulkner, he got drunk several times with Joyce; and other artists. Just a side note: this is reminds me a lot of the Argentinian group of the martinfierristas in Buenos Aires during

Cuando trabajaba de librero en Buenos Aires, cada tanto se me daba por agarrar un libro al azar y darle una chance. Sin pensarlo demasiado. Así fue como un día tiré de ese lomo fino color blanco de la editorial Interzona. A Plop lo dejé estacionar por cuatro años en la biblioteca de mi casa. Casi añejo, lo tomé una tarde y lo leí de una sola sentada. Con sus capitulos breves, contundentes, los golpes secos de la narrativa de Pinedo es inusual y precisa. Una novela difícil de clasificar. Ucrónica y fantástica, se la podría aparejar a The Road, de Cormac Maccarthy, Borneo de Oliverio Coelho, o El año del desierto de Mairal. Pero también profundamente antropológica: Un mundo después del mundo. Hombres que vagan por el basurero universal. La narración de una historia de la degradación y la superviviencia. Pinedo nos cuenta la historia de Plop, uno más entre un grupo nómade siempre amenazado. La trama en sí no es necesariamente original. Pero lo que se destaca por encima es el est

I joined a workshop about creative writing for new canadians last Saturday. I'm going to leave aside the adjective "new canadian", my thoughts about that are a lot to take in on a few lines of this blog. I joined mostly to improve my poor writing skills. But it  turns out that this will be way more exciting that I though. The diversity of the group and the approach to writing looks very promising! I definitely recommend it. Find more info HERE . So I went home last Saturday with an assignment: to write, in no more than 500 words, "who am I". It looked easy in the beginning, but after some thinking you realized that is a dammed complicated question! This is my response. I decided to write it as a dialogue (or super short story). I better post it here before I change mi mind. -----------------------------  -Do you really think that's who you are?- asked lecturing him. -Well, not really- answered uninterested. The room was filled with cigar smoke an