A Booksmith Journal

Todo empezó como una idea excepcional y poco meditada para un regalo: - ¡Ya se! Voy a diseñar un juego de mesa de estrategia. Será el mejor juego, y a todos les va a encantar. Y me lancé a estudiar sobre la ingeniería detrás de dichos juegos. Después pensé en un concepto atractivo y una mecánica atrapante. Empezé a bocetar. Unas horas después... - ¡La pucha que es difícil hacer un juego de mesa! Pero como soy testarudo -y todavía tenía que hacer un regalo- me ingenié una manera elegante de postergar el proyecto y entregar un regalo al mismo tiempo. y así fue como hice una especie de juego de mesa. En realidad no es uno sino varios. O al menos podrían ser varios. Quise ir a lo seguro y hacer una versión personalizada del Estanciero (que no es más que una versión argentina del Monopoly). Pero para dejar la puerta abierta a mi futuro "gran" juego de mesa propio, diseñé una caja en la que se puedan guardar varios juegos en un solo lugar. Aquí el resultad...

Quizás lo más importante sea hacer algo. En momentos de incertidumbre lo peor es ceder a la parálisis. 'Hay que seguir andando' reza el dicho, y puede que tenga algo de lógica detrás de su estricto imperativo. Albert Einstein dijo que no se puede resolver un problema utilizando el mismo tipo de razonamiento que lo creo. Es una cruel verdad a veces. Porque, por un lado los hábitos y las costumbres son difíciles de romper, y por el otro para hacerlo hace falta una fuerza de voluntad que suele carecer en momentos problemáticos.  En todo caso, siempre es una buena idea dar un paseo y reflexionar. Esta mañana seguí mi consejo y tomé un paseo en bicicleta de unos 100kms. Era todo parte de un evento (MEC Century ride) que no tiene por propósito explícito ser una carrera, pero que atrajo a un grupo más o menos bien entrenado (y equipado) de participantes. Por mi parte -y fiel a mi estilo- caí con mi hermosa y pesada bicicleta que armé en un taller comunitario, que ni siq...

(written in May 2016, and for some mobscure reason I didn't upload it until today) I wonder if there's some sort of hidden pattern behind the entries in this blog. Last time I posted something (let alone writing) was pretty much a year ago. Some of the things here are meant to be seen and read by others or someone in particular. Many times, like this, the entry is just a personal ramble on thoughts, emotions and projects. Shortly after my last entry, I finished my lunch box selection of stories, mostly due to the end of my relationship with the person to whom those stories were addressed to, during her lunch hours at work. But I also traveled back home, went on a family vacation, my father caught pneumonia abroad, my father died three weeks later, I stayed in Buenos Aires trying to hold the family business, we got a puppy dog, got in all sort of stress with the future, I shut down the family business, visited a therapist, I met -again- a beautiful person, left her and my fam...

The man who landed in Buenos Aires in 1871 bore the name of Johannes Dahlmann and he was a minister in the Evangelical Church. In 1939, one of his grandchlidren, Juan Dahlmann, was secretary of a municipal library on Calle Cordoba, and he considered himself profoundly Argentinian. His maternal grandfather had been that Francisco Flores, of the Second Line-Infantry Division, who had died on the frontier of Buenos Aires, run through with a lance by Indians from Catriel; in the discord inherent between his two lines of descent, Juan Dahlmann (perhaps driven to it by his Germanic blood) chose the line represented by his romantic ancestor, his ancestor of the romantic death. An old sword, a leather frame containing the daguerreotype of a blank-faced man with a beard, the dash and grace of certin music, the familiar strophes of Martin Fierro, the passing years, boredom and solitude, all went to foster this voluntary, but never ostentatioous nationalism. At the cost of numerous small privat...

A non-personal opinion about forced happy/cheerful stories.

by Horacio Quiroga Alicia's entire honeymoon gave her hot and cold shivers. A blonde, angelic, and timid young girl, the childish fancies she had dreamed about being a bride had been chilled by her husband's rough character. She loved him very much, nonetheless, although sometimes she gave a light shudder when, as they returned home through the streets together at night, she cast a furtive glance at the impressive stature of her Jordan, who had been silent for an hour. He, for his part, loved her profoundly but never let it be seen. For three months--they had been married in April--they lived in a special kind of bliss. Doubtless she would have wished less severity in the rigorous sky of love, more expansive and less cautious tenderness, but her husband's impassive manner always restrained her. The house in which they lived influenced her chills and shuddering to no small degree. The whiteness of the silent patio--friezes, columns, and marble statues--produced the...

It was very early in the morning, the streets clean and deserted, I was walking to the station. As I compared the tower clock with my watch I realized that it was already much later than I had thought, I had to hurry, the shock of this discovery made me unsure of the way, I did not yet know my way very well in this town; luckily, a policeman was nearby, I ran up to him and breathlessly asked him the way. He smiled and said: “From me you want to know the way?” “Yes,” I said, “since I cannot find it myself.” “Give it up! Give it up,” he said, and turned away with a sudden jerk, like people who want to be alone with their laughter.