Ohhhh, me levanté con un humor de los buenos, en mi clase de inglés hicimos ejercicios para hacer una oración con unas adverb clauses predefinidas. A continuación, les presento estos adverb clauses y en paréntesis, las oraciones que yo tenía preparadas para decir en cualquier momento.

As if he wanted to say something. (He stood silent and with his eyes glowing strangely, as if he wanted to say something).

If the dog digs under the fence (They could find the body, if the dog digs under the fence).

While she was studying for her history exam (She got shot at the coffee shop, while she was studying for her history exam).

So that you can mail it (I have some anthrax around here, so that you can mail it).

Unless my mother says otherwise. (I might as well kill you Mr. Bond, unless my mother says otherwise) —> esta la leí en clase.

Whenever we play our record albums (We like to dance naked in the fresh air, whenever we play our record albums).

Y leí otra más que no era tan buena. Por supuesto, Mario alzó una ceja y me dijo en ese acento inglés: “Well, you’re a rather morbid person”. Coro de carcajadas, me anoté una paloma.

Cultura Europea, hueva, regresó Pilar… pero ahora si no me dormí en clase, presté atención y de hecho resolví algunas dudas. Procuré interesarme y esta vez salió algo bueno, ya me sé los orígenes del sistema feudal, del vasallato y de las primeritas guerras que hubo entre Francia e Inglaterra. Muy sintetizado el rollo de Carlomagno… les dije que no me dormí?

Fui al baño en algún momento y mis genitales recordaron la noche anterior, no, no tengo alguna fijación sexual con las policías… de hecho, hasta me empezó a doler y casi casi fue como si tuviera mis genitales susurrándome a la oreja: “Pobrecitos de nosotros, pobrecitos de nosotros, nos ha tocado un policía”.

Tengo un montón de ricos cocos… están en fila, miralos, grandes chicos… bien jugosos como este.

Se acercan las fechas, turilurilarila.

Soy un monumento al sueño, deberían verme… como dijo Patricia: “Con mis ojos tristes de droopy”. Ese siempre fue uno de mis personajes preferidos. El famoso Droopy.

Odio mi computadora lenta, es increíble como se alenta cuando trato de bajar la ciudad que está construyendo OINK! (alguien tiene el link? que lo perdí… será www.oink.com ? Oh fuck!).

Hoy me fue bien en la escuela… el de inglés me adora, soy material renovable… constantemente me invento las palabras y términos mal usados y más y más y más…

¿Les conté de proliferous? Un día, se la solté mientras estaba yo tratando de explicar algo… así que enarcó una ceja después de escuchar la palabra y la perorata fue más o menos…

Teacher: Excuse me… what did you just said?
ATT: Proliferous…
Teacher: no no no, sounds like spanish. Is that even a word?
ATT: I dunno… maybe I’m wrong.

Semana siguiente.

Teacher: What was the word you used the other day?
ATT: Proliferous…
Teacher: Oh yeah, so… did you check if it existed?
ATT: Yeah! As a matter of fact, I checked it on a Webster and it does exist.
Astrid de metichona: But it isn’t in this Oxford edition.
Teacher: I guess not… maybe because it’s more of an american word. Oxford is more reliable for british english.

Semana siguiente.

Teacher: I checked on your word (ahora me tocó enarcar la ceja), yeah I’m sorry… but I’m a bit of obsesive about this kind of situations. I think you already noticed it. Well, Proliferous is used for bothanical language mostly… for plants. When we speak about other type of stuff, we say PROLIFIC.

ATT aprendió algo nuevo.

Y después de todo, soy feli

He terminado de hacer mi critical report. Se los comparto a ustedes:

“The Sisters” by James Joyce. Critical Comment:

I think death and paralysis are strongly related in this story. I believe that paralysis strikes James psyche in a way that he loses faith in al senses, including the most important one, his faith in God.

I liked the story, the form of it (first person narrative), and I was into it the first line I read it. But I disagree in the use of “open-ending” in this one. I think it’s not an ending at all. Maybe it’s because it was one of the first stories that Joyce wrote.

Little Things, by Raymond Carver

Early that day the weather turned and the snow was melting into dirty water. Streaks of it ran down from the little shoulder-high window that faced the backyard. Cars slushed by on the street outside, where it was getting dark. But it was getting dark on the inside too.

He was in the bedroom pushing clothes into a suitcase when she came to the door.

I’m glad you’re leaving! I’m glad you’re leaving! she said. Do you hear?

He kept on putting his things into the suitcase.

Son of a bitch! I’m so glad you’re leaving! She began to cry. You can’t even look me in the face, can you?

Then she noticed the baby’s picture on the bed and picked it up.

He looked at her and she whiped her eyes and stared at him before turning and going back to the living room.

Bring that back, he said.

Just get your things and get out, she said.

He did not answer. He fastened the suitcase, put on his coat, looked around the bedroom before turning off the light. Then he went out to the living room.

She stood in the doorway of the little kitchen, holding the baby.

I want the baby, he said.

Are you crazy?

No, but I want the baby. I’ll get someone to come by for his things.

You’re not touching this baby, she said.

The baby had begun to cry and she uncovered the blanket from around his head.

Oh, oh, she said, looking at the baby.

He moved toward her.

For God’s sake! she said. She took a step back into the kitchen.

I want the baby.

Get out of here!

She turned and tried to hold the baby over in a corner behind the stove.

But he came up. He reached across the stove and tightened his hands on the baby.

Get away, get away! she cried.

The baby was red-faced and screaming. In the scuffle they knocked down a flowerpot that hung behind the stove.

He crowded her into the wall then, trying to break her grip. He held onto the baby and pushed with all his weight.

Let go of him, he said.

Don’t, she said. You’re hurting the baby, she said.

I’m not hurting the baby, he said.

The kitchen window gave no light. In the near-dark he worked on her fisted fingers with one hand and with the other hand he gripped the screaming baby up under an arm near the shoulder.

She felt her fingers being forced open. She felt the baby going from her.

No! she screamed just as her hands came loose.

She would have it, this baby. She grabbed for the baby’s other arm. She caught the baby around the wrist and leaned back.

But he would not let go. He felt the baby slipping out of his hands and he pulled back very hard.

In this manner, the issue was decided.