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engaged in visual art, divulgator

Lucinda Urrusti, pintora: retrato de una época Elena Poniatowska

http://www.jornada.unam.mx/2015/10/18/sem-elena.html

Foto: Rogelio Cuéllar

Pintó a Juan Rulfo, a Gabriel García Márquez y a Carlos Fuentes,
entre otros.

Elena Poniatowska
Lucinda Urrusti, nacida en 1929, en Melilla, Marruecos, vino a México con sus padres a los diez años a raíz de la Guerra civil de España en 1939. Después de estudiar en La Esmeralda se hizo pintora y entre otros grandes retratos pintó el de Juan Rulfo, el de Gabriel García Márquez, el de su propia madre, doña Felisa y el de Carlos Fuentes, quien al verse por primera vez en el caballete en la casa de Lucinda en Xochimilco, exclamó: “¡Pero me has hecho como Dios!” Gabriel García Márquez, que lo acompañaba, intervino: “¿Qué no lo eres?” Deslumbrados, dijeron que el retrato de grandes proporciones impactaría no sólo al mundo intelectual sino al celestial. Fuentes, blanco y luminoso, es un espejo desenterrado (él, que tanto habló del espejo enterrado) que aparece en una tela que ilumina el espacio varios metros a la redonda.

Lucinda ofreció una comida en su casa floreada de Xochimilco para que Álvaro Mutis y su mujer, Carmen; Gabo y su mujer, Mercedes Barcha, y Carlos Fuentes y Silvia Lemus inauguraran el fantástico retrato de Fuentes.

“Los Fuentes llegaron tarde –cuenta Lucinda– porque Silvia toma dos o tres horas en arreglarse. Me llamaron que estaban perdidos y se presentaron enojados. Carlos le reclamó a Silvia: ‘Siempre me hace esperar, nunca llegamos puntuales a nada, hemos perdido aviones en varias ocasiones.’ Me consta la impuntualidad de Silvia porque alguna vez me citó a mediodía a comer en San Ángel Inn y llegó a las dos horas, cuando ya me iba yo.”

(Los retratos de Lucinda Urrusti son extraordinarios. Alí Chumacero habló de la poesía de los dos retratos de Felisa, madre de Lucinda. Octavio Paz, Ramón Xirau, Jaime García Terrés y Alfonso García Robles cuelgan en la galería de miembros de El Colegio Nacional. Los apuntes sobre Gabriel García Márquez también han causado sensación.)

En 1939, Lucinda, su padre Rafael, que era militar de carrera, su madre Felisa y su hermano, pasaron la frontera de la España republicana a Francia “con miles de familias republicanas que caminaban hacia los Pirineos y sufrieron grandes penalidades. Cientos de miles cargamos lo poco que pudimos salvar y tuvimos que lidiar con los gendarmes franceses que sólo nos decían: ‘Allez- y, allez- y…’ y nos desvalijaban”.Un momento del desembarco del Sinaia en Veracruz
Fotos tomadas del documental Sinaia, más allá del océano
Llegada a México de refugiados españoles en el barco Sinaia

“Creo que los franceses, al tratarnos tan mal, le apostaron a Hitler, lo hicieron por temor, para hacer méritos ante Hitler. Lamentablemente, Vichy y Pétain fueron colaboracionistas. Mi madre escondió un reloj Longines de oro que mi padre usaba en la bolsa de su chaleco y lo guardó en el momento en que nos enviaron con seiscientos ancianos y ancianas, madres de familia con sus hijos, al norte de Francia, a Pas de Calais, cerca ya de Inglaterra. Mi padre quedó en el peor campo de concentración imaginable, el de Argeles sur Mer, en la playa, a ras de la arena, en medio de ventiscas de arena y de agua, en el que murieron muchos de los que no tenían ni tienda de campaña y sólo podían protegerse con lo que traían puesto. Nosotros por lo menos tuvimos paja para recostarnos encima y mi madre juntó trapitos de no sé dónde para hacernos una colchoneta que rompió el carcelero porque ‘todo tiene que ser igual para todos’. A diferencia de los militares, el pueblo francés se portó de maravilla y nos hacía llegar chocolate, azúcar, pan. Mi madre por fin pudo recibir noticias de mi padre en Argeles sur Mer y gracias al general Cárdenas, ¡bendito para todos nosotros!, conseguimos viajar a México en los barcos que él fletó y llamó ‘Barcos de la Libertad’, fíjate qué bonito nombre. México nos abrió sus puertas y venimos en el Sinaia. Embarcamos en Set, cerca de Marsella. Reencontramos en el puerto a mi padre –esquelético y muy maltratado psicológicamente– y viajamos a México en pésimas condiciones en la cala, en una de las tres oscuras bodegas, hasta que a mi padre se le ocurrió subirnos a cubierta y meternos en una lancha salvavidas: ‘¡Qué genio de mi padre, qué rico se está acá!’, aunque a las cinco de la mañana nos tocó el regaderazo gratis de los marineros que lavan la cubierta. En las tardes, también en cubierta, Fernando y Susana Gamboa nos daban conferencias de cómo era México y eso nos animaba una barbaridad.

”En Veracruz, el acogimiento fue el más cálido y fervoroso que te puedas imaginar. Todo el puerto salió a recibirnos agitando banderitas y globos. Pero ¡qué maravilla! Leíamos distintas pancartas: ‘¡Queridos hermanos españoles, somos el sindicato tal y les damos la bienvenida!’ Levantaban hacia nosotros charolas de piñas y mangos. Recuerdo mucho los aguacates. ‘Oye ¿qué es, papá?’ ‘Es una mantequilla verde riquísima’, me explicaba mi padre, que había estado en África. Al ver desde cubierta una manta del ‘Sindicato de Tortilleras’, una amiga le comentó a mi madre: ‘¡Mira tú qué fenomenal, yo no sabía que comen tanta tortilla, hasta sindicato tienen!’ Creía que era la tortilla española, la de papas y huevos. Todos los veracruzanos nos invitaban a su casa a comer, a cenar y esa cordialidad nos emocionó sobre todo después de pasar tantas persecuciones, tanta humillación y tanta hambre.”

“¡Ay, la niña dibuja!”

“En México, mi padre (general de la República) fue nuestro primer maestro en matemáticas, álgebra, geometría, gramática, geografía, etcétera. Mi madre cosía primorosamente para El Palacio de Hierro y El Puerto de Liverpool y otras tiendas, y así nos mantuvimos. Tenía clientas que iban a la casa y un día me vieron inclinada sobre mi cuaderno blanco: ‘¡Ay, la niña dibuja!’ Me pi-dieron que les hiciera un retrato. Conocimos a Salvador Zubirán, el médico, que decidió llevar a su sobrina o a su hija para que yo le hiciera un retrato y me pagó una fortuna: 100 pesos. ¡Qué barbaridad! Con aquellos pesos mi hermano pudo comprarse su libro de anatomía.
Clases de pintura en La Esmeralda, circa 1958
Foto: Memoria de labores, 1954-1958/ fuente: http://www.discursovisual.net

“Pensé en elegir Arquitectura como carrera universitaria, pero me di cuenta de que mi vocación era pintar y en 1948 me metí a La Esmeralda, a la que asistían veteranos americanos, supongo que de la guerra de Vietnam (sic). El director era Antonio Rodríguez y conocí a un ser entrañable, el Corcito, gran pintor y dispuesto a ayudar en todo. Fue una época linda de mi vida. Mi maestro de dibujo era Jesús Guerrero Galván, Federico Cantú daba fresco, Agustín Lazo, óleo, y me di cuenta de que además de maestros estupendos eran pintores muy respetables que me dejaban en libertad. De los Tres Grandes, al que yo más admiraba era a Orozco y le llevé un dibujo a su andamio. Para mí era como conocer a Dios Padre. Orozco me elogió. También conocí años más tarde a Diego Rivera y me senté junto a él en la casa de Lupe su hija en la esquina de Calero, en San Ángel. Mis dos hijos –Juan David y Joaquín, el menor que falleció de cáncer– eran amigos de los hijos de Lupe Rivera y jugaban juntos en la calle, que no tenía tráfico. Lupe Rivera me sentó en una banca al lado de Diego, que también fue padrísima gente conmigo aunque yo tenía miedo de que me comiera.

”Empecé a tener éxito como retratista. Las señoras me pedían que les quitara la papada, que les mejorara la espalda, el mentón, el peinado, y había que darles gusto dándote de cabezazos, pero me pagaron muy bien y eso ayudó a la familia a salir adelante. Lo menos afortunado que hice en toda mi vida fue casarme con Archibaldo Burns, pero mis dos hijos son lo mejor.

–¿Y por qué te casaste, Lucinda?

–Me casé con Archibaldo Burns porque él era el galán de la época. Rico, guapo, inteligente, codiciado por todas las madres de familia, el mejor partido. Un cronista de sociales anunció en su columna en Excélsior que “el soltero más codiciado de México se casa con una gachupinita que dicen que para el tráfico”. En esa época yo era compañera de escuela de pintura de Lilia Carrillo, que falleció de cáncer. Ricardo Guerra, filósofo del grupo Hiperión, me pretendía. Cuando vio que yo no iba a hacerle caso, se hizo novio de Lilia Carrillo, a quien iba a buscar a la salida de clases. Muchas veces me he preguntado: ¿por qué me casé? Quizá toda esa aureola de rico, educado en Inglaterra, conocedor de muchos idiomas, culto, guapísimo, hombre de mundo, quizá todo me deslumbró, como deslumbraba a las jóvenes casaderas de México. ¡Y a las mamás de las casaderas! Archibaldo montaba a caballo, pertenecía a clubs hípicos, jugaba polo y tenía caballos únicos, casi pegasos o unicornios traídos del mundo entero, mejor dicho del más allá. En uno de esos juegos de polo se cayó y se fastidió varias vértebras y ya no pudo seguir montando. Fue entonces, ya muy tarde, cuando descubrió la cultura.

”Aunque Archibaldo creía que sabía todo, no había hecho estudios serios de nada. Descubrió la cultura ya de adultísimo, a partir de su caída del caballo jugando al polo, porque antes era un niño bien, enviado por sus padres a internados en Inglaterra, creo que en Eton o en Cambridge. Me contó que varios de sus compañeros podían tener su coche privado esperándolos en el estacionamiento del campus.

”Archibaldo Burns era hijo único; su madre Carmen Luján y sus tías habían sido dueñas de Torreón. Tenían fincas algodoneras y la tía Lola embelesaba a todos contándoles de la pizca y de la inmensidad de las tierras cubiertas de copos de algodón. Casi todo Torreón les pertenecía, como el estado de Chihuahua perteneció a la familia Terrazas. En una ocasión le preguntaron a un Terrazas si era de Chihuahua y respondió: ’No, Chihuahua es mío.’ Las Luján eran ricas, apostólicas, católicas. Archibaldo ya no era un jovenazo de veintitantos años y había tenido varias novias y otras tantas amantes. Con Dolores del Río tuvo una relación de un año y ella declaró que se había enamorado perdida de él. Como Archibaldo era hijo único, su madre, Carmen, ya quería nietos y me acogió bien aunque me examinó de pies a cabeza. Ella y las tías hicieron una comida sólo para interrogarme. En esa casa, en la calle de Francisco Sosa, conocí a Lolita Miranda, que era medio francesa y habría de casarse con René Creel. A ambas nos aceptaron las tías Luján, porque éramos blanquitas y europeas, por eso pasamos la prueba, si no nos mandan al diablo. A Lola Miranda –hija de divorciados– le pusieron algunos “peros”; a mí también porque a lo mejor era “roja”, pero salimos indemnes porque las dos éramos muy bonitas. ¡Estudié en el Luis Vives y me nacionalicé mexicana a los dieciocho años! ¡Ay, qué tiempos, señor don Simón! Tiempos como de Joaquín Pardavé.

”Después de la boda no me acuerdo ni dónde, porque no me quiero acordar, pasamos un año viajando por Europa, un año que disfruté muchísimo porque los museos fueron mi verdadera escuela. También Archibaldo lo disfrutó, si no jamás habría aceptado pasar horas y horas frente a un determinado cuadro. Yo era muy obsesiva y regresaba a ver en la tarde los cuadros contemplados en la mañana y él me seguía porque sí era un hombre a quien le interesó el arte. Creo que de joven y gracias a su dinero produjo con Chano Urueta La noche de los mayas, y creo que también dio dinero para montar La paloma de Amuy, de Anouilh.
José Clemente Orozco. Fuente: koreadaily.com
”Cuando regresamos a México me encontré con que mi suegra nos había puesto casa en San Ángel Inn, una casa grande construida con materiales de demolición, herrería antigua muy especial, piedras notables y columnas del arquitecto Parra, que curiosamente insertaba en las paredes de las habitaciones un botellón de agua verde como tragaluz. Llena de escaleras, ventanucos y recovecos, la arquitectura de Caco Parra era cotizadísima. El comedor quedaba en el piso de arriba; la cocina hasta abajo, la sala a metros de distancia, nada cómodo, nada cómodo. Mi suegra la decoró como las de la gente bien de México y la llenó de antigüedades, cómodas, tapetes persas, porcelanas de la Compagnie des Indes, muebles de época, cuadros valiosísimos, taburetes, mesitas y esquineros, pero yo nunca la sentí mi casa, ni siquiera la recámara. Además, no había un solo espacio para que yo pintara.

“¿Por qué me casé con él?”

–¿No te enamoraste de Archie ni tantito, Lucinda?

–Pues algunas veces lo he pensado. Cuando me di cuenta de que no tenía ninguna afinidad con él me pregunté: “Entonces ¿por qué me casé con él?” Seguramente la imagen del niño bien amable, cortés, bien educado, rico y célebre caló en mí, pero después resultó que mi marido sólo era rico. Cuando me di cuenta, me pregunté: “¿Qué hice? ¡Qué barbaridad, esto es para toda la vida!” Como ya te lo dije, Archibaldo Burns era hijo único, no trabajaba, estaba en casa todo el día. Si estaba de buenas, pues bien, y si no, pasaba su mano encima de los muebles para ver si tenían polvo y se enojaba.

”Él no tenía que trabajar, yo tampoco y él se quejaba de todo; yo tampoco había cocinado nunca ni tenía necesidad, no sabía ser ama de casa porque antes de casarme nunca hice nada, había de todo, mozo, cocinera, recamarera. De joven soltera, lo único que hice fue dibujar.

”Tuve a mis dos hijos y él ahí en casa todo el santo día. Ni siquiera hacía siesta. Yo le dije: ‘Tú que tanto hablas de tu vida ¿por qué no la escribes?’ Se lo dije para que hiciera algo. Era inteligente y me pareció que podía tener dotes de escritor si se lo tomaba en serio, porque cuando se le acabó la época dorada de playboy, el polo y lo demás, se quedó sólo conmigo. Conoció a Edmundo O’Gorman y a Justino Fernández y con ellos descubrió el mundo de la cultura y eso lo empezó a vestir.

”Aunque él ni siquiera era buen lector, le repetí casi a diario: ‘Tienes dotes, muchas capacidades, cuenta tu vida, estás dotado para la literatura, escribe lo que has vivido, ya verás que puedes.’ Sin embargo, tengo que recordar que él –muy joven, antes de conocerme– produjo una película de Francisco de Paula Cabrera que se filmó en su casa de Paseo de la Reforma, que es ahora el Cine Diana: Refugiados en Madrid, y también que le fascinaba el teatro y fue alumno del japonés Seki Sano.

”Para esto, Ricardo Martínez y Zarina, que eran amigos y vecinos, me invitaron a compartir su estudio. Al no tener que ir a oficina alguna, Archibaldo salía en las mañanas a caminar en San Ángel y un día regresó acompañado de Ricardo Martínez, culto, leído, serio, quizá un poco pedantón. Vivía con Zarina y sus hijitos, que iban al mismo kínder que los míos. Mi marido le dijo a Ricardo: ‘Esta mujer ha perdido la vocación porque ya no hace nada.’ Me sentaba frente a la tela en blanco, intentaba yo hacer algo, pero mi marido se ponía detrás de mi hombro a dictarme el cuadro que yo tenía que pintar. En esa época yo era tímida y en vez de protestar y pedirle que me dejara hacer lo mío, me aguantaba por idiota, no le decía nada a mi marido, que seguía insistiéndole al pintor Ricardo Martínez: ‘Esta mujer tenía vocación y ya no hace nada.’ Ricardo, que era un hombre sensible, se dio cuenta de la situación y le explicó a mi marido: ‘Mira, si tu mujer no tiene un lugar donde encerrarse a pintar pues no lo va a hacer. Como vivimos cerca, yo tengo mi estudio en casa, Lucinda puede ir cuando quiera.’
Sus hijos David y Joaquín Burns Urrusti

La artista con sus hijos Joaquín y David

Joaquín Burns Urrusti, 1959, lápiz sobre papel
”Empecé a ir a casa de Ricardo Martínez. Su estudio no era el gran estudio que después construyó al fondo del jardín, sino un cuarto de su casa, pero yo trabajé muy a gusto. Archibaldo me iba a dejar y me iba a recoger a mediodía, aunque Ricardo y Archibaldo eran como el agua y el aceite. Si hablaban de literatura acababan del chongo; si de política, peor. No coincidían en nada. Yo nunca intervenía en las discusiones, tampoco hubiera podido, ¿verdad?, pero ahora recuerdo que se me antojaba contradecirlos porque si uno era un pelma, el otro era un pedante y viceversa.

”Archibaldo se sentó a escribir sobre una mesa antigua. Más tarde, como comprenderás, nunca leí uno solo de sus libros, ni Botafumeiro, ni En presencia de nadie ni El cuerpo y el delito. Recuerdo que el grupo Hiperión se reunía en la casa para que él les leyera lo que había escrito durante la semana. Venían Luis Villoro –desde luego el mejor de todos–, Fausto Vega, una muy buena persona, muy inteligente; Joaquín Sánchez McGregor, Salvador Reyes Nevares; recuerdo que Leopoldo Zea vino una sola vez. Todos habían sido discípulos de José Gaos y se jactaban de conocer a fondo a José Ortega y Gasset, y mientras discutían se bebían todo el whisky de la casa. Uranga era como bichito, era el más brillante pero yo lo sentía como venenoso. Jorge Portilla, hijo de asturianos, tenía bonita voz y cantaba: ‘Soy un pobre venadito que habita en la serranía.’ Lo conocí antes, en La Esmeralda, creo que él fue quién me presentó a Archibaldo Burns. El que nunca me cayó nada bien fue Emilio Uranga.

”Todos los visitantes le echaban porras a mi marido hasta altas horas de la noche. Había una tienda de los alemanes en San Ángel y yo les hablaba por teléfono a esas horas para renovar las dotaciones de whisky y de jamón serrano, de patés y de quesos y de quién sabe qué tanto. Pensándolo más tarde, me di cuenta de que eran unos gorrones. Mi marido les creía todo. Los halagos a nadie le hacen daño. También yo le decía: ‘Estás dotado. Lo que has vivido, cuéntalo.’

”Mi marido comenzó a descubrir a la intelectualidad, a los filósofos del Hiperión que a mí no me interesaban, al contrario, me pesaban porque se eternizaban en la casa. Aunque hubo una cosa fantástica: una noche llegó Juan Rulfo, calladito, calladito –porque los otros no lo eran– y él sí me encantó y pensé: ‘Ojalá y él sí viniera seguido.’

”Otra noche también, ya muy tarde, apareció Elena Garro recién llegadita de Estados Unidos o de Francia y echó un discurso sobre la promiscuidad, que qué maravilla la promiscuidad. El oyente más entusiasta era su marido, Octavio Paz, quien exclamaba a cada frase: ‘¡Qué inteligente es Elena!, ¿no te parece? Qué inteligente, es inteligentísima ¿no te parece?’ A mí me sorprendió que él la aplaudiera en forma tan desmedida cuando su tema era el de las grandes ventajas de la promiscuidad. Pensé: ‘Pero ¿cómo? Si él es su marido.’ A lo mejor era yo muy provinciana frente a ella y a Octavio– esa pareja tan adelantada. Octavio ya tenía meses en México, ella llegó tiempos después con la hija de ambos que también se llamaba Helena. Recuerdo que todos anunciaban su llegada como un acontecimiento inusual: ‘¡Ya va a venir Elena, ya va a venir Elena, es brillante, apabullante!’

“Cuando llegó Elena, trastocó todo”

”Elena Garro se presentó en la casa con soberbia, con un argentino amigo de Borges, creo que Pepe Bianco o Adolfo Bioy Casares, no recuerdo; Pepe Bianco, seguramente. Apareció un sábado a la una de la mañana, yo ya había dado de cenar y cuando vio que ya no había ni cacahuates exclamó: ‘¡Es que hay que ver lo payo que son los mexicanos. Mucha casa y mucho todo pero después de las doce no se come! En cambio en París…’ Pensé qué descaro el suyo, porque la que llegó tardísimo y sin avisar fue ella.Kiyoshi Takahashi, Manuel Felguérez, Vicente Rojo, Gosei Abe, Muñoz Medina, Lilia Carrillo, Lucinda Urrusti, Albita Rojo, Waldemar Sjolander, Berta Cuevas,Rafael Anzures, Bambi, Antonio Segui, Enrique Echeverría, Héctor Xavier, Alberto Gironella, Pedro Coronel, José Luis Cuevas, Rafael Coronel, Jorge Dubón, Vlady y Tomás Parra, en la cervecería alemana La Palma, en los años sesenta
”Muy al principio, Archibaldo y ella se aislaron y se sentaron muy campechanos en unos escalones disparejos del Caco Parra a comunicarse sus males, los de Elena y los de Archibaldo, que si la columna, que si las vértebras, que si la pierna, que si la cabeza, y enumeraban todo lo que padecían y yo decía qué bueno, que tenían mucho de qué hablar con tantas y tan frecuentes enfermedades. Creí que su consulta médica era muy inocente y me parecía mejor que Elena disertara sobre su gripa o sus migrañas a que criticara con saña las cursis cenas mexicanas, ‘nada que ver con las de París’. Ella era muy intelectual y muy por encima de todo. Al principio pensé yo qué bueno que mi marido y ella platiquen, pero después Elena lo convirtió en su enfermero.

”Cuando llegó Elena a San Ángel, trastocó todo. El teléfono sonaba a veces a las dos de la mañana y ella decía: ‘O vienes o yo me suicido’ y no sé qué. Archibaldo salía corriendo y dejaba abiertas las puertas del garaje. Te digo que apareció Elena Garro, que era de rompe y rasga y muy soberbia, muy pagada de sí misma. Su voz, a lo largo de cientos de llamadas, me resultó estridente. Elena gritaba, exigía, se encolerizaba. Cuando no llamaba a cualquier hora, le enviaba cartas amenazándolo con su suicidio y a mí la vida se me volvió un infierno.

”‘Yo me salgo con mis hijos’, pensé y decidí irme. Le pedí el divorcio a mi marido pero nunca hubo divorcio. Ricardo Martínez se dio cuenta de lo que estaba pasando: ‘Tienes problemas ¿Por qué no dices algo? Te podemos ayudar.’ En esa época yo era muy callada, aguantaba todo, creo que toda la vida he aguantado todo, hasta la muerte de mi hijo Joaquín, pero cuando él me propuso su ayuda, creo que solté todo: ‘Sí, ya no los aguanto. Cuando no llama, manda una carta amenazándolo. Yo me salgo de mi casa, yo agarro a mis hijos y allá ellos.”

–No, no hagas eso porque pierdes los derechos –me dijo Ricardo–, te acusarían de abandono de hogar, de secuestrar a tus hijos. Necesitas un abogado.

–Pero si no tengo dinero, ¿de dónde pago un abogado?

–No, no te preocupes, yo te voy a ayudar, tengo un amigo que es abogado.

–Pero ¿con qué le pago?

–Él y yo nos conocemos desde la primaria, José López Portillo. Cuando puedas le pagas.

“Efectivamente, en esa época, López Portillo todavía no estaba en la política ni en el partido; sólo tenía su bufete, era un hombre sencillo, apoyador. Le expliqué mi situación, le dije que quería el divorcio.

José López Portillo –muy buen consejero– me preguntó si yo quería casarme otra vez. Yo le dije que no, que para nada, mi experiencia con Archibaldo había sido muy mala y ya no quería otra igual. ‘Si esto es el matrimonio, ¿quién diablos lo quiere?’ En esa época eran íntimos amigos, López Portillo, Jorge Díaz Serrano y Luis Echeverría. López Portillo me aconsejó no salir de la casa. Muy tranquila y confiada le entregué mis papeles, pero al poco tiempo me llamó: ‘Venga a recoger sus documentos porque Luis Echeverría, mi amigo, me dice que me meta al partido, que ahí tengo mucho más que hacer que como abogado.’ Me devolvió el expediente y efectivamente, los tres amigos prosperaron en el partido, Echeverría y López Portillo como presidentes de la República y Jorge Díaz Serrano en Petróleos Mexicanos.

”Archibaldo no respondía a mi petición de divorcio, salía de viaje, regresaba a los cien años. Yo quería saber cuál era mi situación, soltera, divorciada… Un abogado me dijo: ‘Después de cinco años, en México usted es soltera’ o algo así. Soltera y con hijos, ¿te imaginas?

”Archibaldo se iba a vivir a París con Elena y con su hija… No sé en qué ministerio dejaba nuestra solicitud de divorcio, pero como él no seguía el proceso, se iba y no prosperaba. Para lograr el divorcio era necesaria la presencia de Archibaldo o la de su abogado.”

–Entonces, Lucinda, estallaste como una olla de presión.Izquierda; Adolfo Bioy Casares, Elena Garro, Octavio Paz y Elenita,
hija del matrimonio

–Mientras Elena Garro acababa con la fortuna de mi marido en Europa al grado de dejarlo en la miseria –él le compró la casa que fue de Molière en la rue de l’Ancienne Comédie en París–, me puse a trabajar. Nunca hubo divorcio, hasta la fecha. Yo estaba sola con los hijos, mi marido jamás le dio seguimiento a nada. Todo era para Elena Garro, ni un centavo me daba. A pesar de que lo dejaron en la calle, supe que ella y su hija lo criticaban: ‘El tacaño de Archie nos compró un departamento en París pero ni el salón de peinados nos quiere pagar.’

–¡Qué locura!

–Ella era una majareta perdida, como les dicen en España a las que están tocadas. Madre e hija se reían de él en todos lados; siguieron poniéndolo pinto y moro a pesar de que él perdió todo, y cuando te digo todo es todo. Mi marido vivió muy mal sus últimos años. Yo creo que la que pagó el pato siempre fue la hija, porque malvendieron el departamento de París. Todo se les iba de las manos, todo. A él lo dejaron en la calle. Al final, quien le llevaba de comer a mi marido de lunes a domingo era nuestro hijo Juan David.

–¡Qué historia!

–Cuando a Octavio Paz le dieron el Nobel y tenía que ir a Suecia a recibirlo, él y su mujer Marie Jo –con quien sí fue muy feliz– tenían pánico de que se presentaran las dos a boicotear el acto, aunque a lo mejor eso no habría sucedido porque parece que Elena le tenía muchísimo respeto a la realeza; era monárquica, además de quitamaridos.

“Tuve que dar clases particulares porque La Esmeralda me ofrecía ser maestra, pero de ese sueldo no se puede vivir. Entonces les enseñé a pintar a señoras que pagaban bien. Quizá yo por débil les cumplía sus antojos: ’Lucinda, ¿cómo enmarco esto? Por favor ayúdame’, ‘No, pues le pones así y asado y yo te acompaño’, hasta que me di cuenta de que yo no pintaba lo mío por andar de samaritana. Dejé las clases particulares pero, ¿de qué vamos a comer? Me lanzaba, me arrepentía, volvía a lanzarme, pero pasó algo divino en una época divina de México: empecé a vender. Éramos cuatro ciudadanos o gatos y los maestros y los alumnos universitarios organizaban ventas públicas, hacían una tanda, digamos de 50 pesos mensuales y cuando juntaban una equis cantidad acudían al estudio de algún pintor y compraban un cuadro. Pasaban cosas así, mágicas. ‘Lucinda, queremos algo tuyo.’ La gente tenía interés por el arte. Ahora no vives de la venta de tu obra como en aquella época. El primer premio que gané fue el de las Galerías Excélsior, un gran estímulo y además un premio en efectivo importante, no sé si mil o tres mil pesos. Empecé a poder vivir de la pintura y a hacer exposiciones en galerías y a participar en bienales y a viajar a Nueva York y a exponer en Bellas Artes y en colectivas con Lilia Carrillo, Alberto Gironella, Vicente Rojo, José Luis Cuevas, los hermanos Coronel y otros más, todos los de la generación de la ruptura. Los críticos se entusiasmaron con mi obra, desde los más viejos como Margarita Nelken y Jorge Juan Crespo de la Serna, hasta los más jóvenes como Alí Chumacero, Salvador Elizondo, Juan García Ponce, Alaíde Foppa. Trabajé muchísimo, desde el primer momento me comprometí a rechazar lo improvisado. Viví en Nueva York, ya cuando mis hijos estaban grandes y no me necesitaban. Allá trabajé como una obsesa. Había pensado ir a París, pero me quedé más cerca de ellos, sabiendo que ya tenían de qué vivir y todo eso. Su abuela Carmen Luján les heredó un edificio magnífico en la calle de Horacio, en Polanco, y lo vendieron en tres centavos, botaron el dinero en diez segundos. Si me hubieran avisado yo se lo compro, en vez de eso pusieron un restaurante con sus amigos en Valle de Bravo y fracasaron.

”La pintura para mí ha sido un salvavidas fantástico. Es maravilloso hacer lo que uno quiere y además que te elogien y ganar dinero. Fui amiga de García Ascot, Clement, Luna, Gaya, Souto, aunque él en seguida se fue a Galicia; Gaya creo que también. José López Portillo, presidente de la República, siguió siendo muy amable, se detenía a saludarme en todos los actos culturales de Bellas Artes, muy cordial, muy caballeroso. Por cierto, una vez me encontré a Octavio Paz en Bellas Artes del brazo de Marie Jo y me dijo una frase que se me ha quedado grabada: ‘Los dos salimos ganando.’

Elena Garro murió el 23 de agosto de 1998.
Octavio Paz el 19 de abril de 1998.
Archibaldo Burns Luján, el 24 de enero de 2011.
Lucinda Urrusti es ahora la única que puede contarnos la tormentosa historia que padeció.
Fotos cortesía de la pintora

Figs. vars. sab18jul15

sab18jul15

the Project Gutenberg EBook of Wide World Magazine, Vol. 22, No. 128,
November 1908, by Various

A HUMAN CATHARINE-WHEEL—THIS EXTRAORDINARY DEVICE IS TO BE SEEN AT THE ANNUAL FEAST OF THE TOTONACO INDIANS, OF MEXICO. FOUR MEN, GAILY BEDECKED, TAKE THEIR PLACES ON THE ARMS OF THE MILL AND PROCEED TO MAKE IT ROTATE, WORKING UP TO A SPEED OF FORTY OR FIFTY REVOLUTIONS A MINUTE.

THE ONLY BRASS BAND IN THE WORLD WHOSE MEMBERS ARE DEAF AND DUMB.

From a Photograph.

The only brass band in the world whose members are deaf and dumb is depicted in the photograph reproduced below. This remarkable band belongs to the New York Institution for the Deaf and Dumb. To teach a person who is afflicted in this way to play an instrument and get him to understand something of musical notation would appear at first an impossible task, and it was only accomplished after many months of patience. First of all the players were taught how to blow the fife, the simplest of all wind instruments. The next step was more intricate. By the use of certain fingers the players were made to produce given notes, and in this way various tones were taught and committed to memory. Being of necessity taught with the utmost exactness, the pupils developed a confidence of execution not found in the average musical student.  …

Project Gutenberg's Lichtbild- und Kino-Technik, by Franz Paul Liesegang

Lichtbild- und
Kino-Technik

von F. Paul Liesegang

Lichtbühnen-Bibliothek Nr. 1
Herausgegeben von der Lichtbilderei
Volksvereins-Verlag GmbH., M.Gladbach 1913

cover

Der Lichtbilderapparat und seine Wirkungsweise

Die allgemeine Anordnung

Der Lichtbilderapparat ist nichts anderes als eine vervollkommnete Form der Laterna magica wie wir sie aus der Kinderstube kennen.

Fig. 1.

Fig. 1. Laterna magica.

Fig. 1 zeigt schematisch die Anordnung und läßt die wesentlichen Bestandteile erkennen: das Gehäuse mit der Lichtquelle, hier einer Petroleumlampe; die Sammellinse C in der Vorderwand des Gehäuses; davor die Bildbühne B, in welche die Glasbilder eingesetzt werden und weiter vorne, mit dem Gehäuse durch ein ausziehbares Rohr verbunden, eine zweite Sammellinse O. Die Linse C, welche man Kondensor nennt, hat die Aufgabe, die Lichtstrahlen zu sammeln und in einem Kegel durch das davorstehende Glasbild zu werfen. Die Linse O anderseits, die man als Objektiv bezeichnet, soll diesen Strahlenkegel aufnehmen und derart geordnet auf die Wand leiten, daß dort ein vergrößertes, scharfes Lichtbild entsteht. Die Eigenschaften, welche die einzelnen Bestandteile des Apparats besitzen müssen, lassen sich hieraus direkt ableiten: das Objektiv O muß zunächst solcher Konstruktion sein, daß es eine scharfe Vergrößerung des Glasbildes entwirft, ferner muß [S. 6] es so groß im Durchmesser sein oder, wie man sagt, eine so große »Öffnung« haben, daß alle vom Kondensor kommenden Strahlen aufgefangen werden. Der Kondensor C soll möglichst viele Strahlen der Lichtquelle aufnehmen, er soll das davorstehende Glasbild gleichmäßig beleuchten und die Strahlen in einem spitzen Kegel so nach vorne schicken, daß sie glatt ins Objektiv gelangen.

Der Kondensor

Fig. 3.

Fig. 3. Doppelter und dreifacher Kondensor.

Der Kondensor muß im Durchmesser so groß sein, daß er die Glasbilder ausbeleuchtet. Die Glasbilder nun, welche man im Handel bekommt, haben das Außenformat 81/4 × 81/4 oder 81/2 × 10 cm; das Innenmaß, d. h. die eigentliche Bildgröße, beträgt in der Regel etwa 7 × 7 cm. Um ein solches Bild von 7 × 7 cm bis in die Ecken zu beleuchten, braucht man, wie Fig. 4

Fig. 4.

Fig. 4. Kondensordurchmesser und Bildgröße.

Das Objektiv

Als Projektionsobjektiv wird meistens das von Petzval erfundene Porträtobjektiv benutzt;

Fig. 5.

Auswechselfassung, an welcher der Zahntrieb angebracht ist; bei dieser Anordnung ist eine bequeme und rasche Auswechslung gegen eine andere Objektivtube möglich.

[S. 9]

     Verhältnis von Bildgröße zu Abstand = 1 : 2

Fig. 6a.

  Verhältnis von Bildgröße zu Abstand = 1 : 3

 Fig. 6b.

Zusammenarbeiten von Kondensor und Objektiv

Der Kondensor muß der Brennweite des Objektivs angepaßt sein. Er soll dem Objektiv, welches in Fig. 7 durch eine einfache Linse wiedergegeben ist, einen Strahlenkegel zuwerfen, in der Weise, daß (wie unter I) alles Licht durch das Objektiv hindurchgeht.

Fig. 7.

Fig. 7. Das Zusammenarbeiten von Kondensor und Objektiv.

Einfluß der Lichtquelle

Aber noch ein Punkt ist beim Zusammenpassen von Objektiv und Kondensor zu berücksichtigen. Man stellt die Wirkungsweise des Kondensors durch die in Fig. 8 unter I gegebene Zeichnung dar, wonach die von der punktförmigen Lichtquelle L ausgehenden Strahlen durch die Linsen wieder in einem Punkte M vereinigt werden.

Fig. 8.

Fig. 8. Wirkungsweise des Kondensors bei punktförmiger Lichtquelle.

Tatsächlich liegen die Verhältnisse noch ungünstiger. Es steht uns nämlich keine Lichtquelle zur Verfügung, die punktförmig ist. Nehmen wir nun aber gemäß Fig. 9 eine Lichtquelle mit einer leuchtenden Fläche L1 L2, so wird jeder einzelne Punkt für sich ein Strahlenbüschel liefern; für L1 verläuft dies Büschel nach unten, wie unter I angedeutet ist, für L2 geht es in gleicher Weise nach oben.

Fig. 9.

Fig. 9. Wirkungsweise des Kondensors bei ausgedehnter Lichtquelle.

Ausführungsformen des Lichtbilderapparats

Fig. 10.

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p. 490 – 91

“My family is not happy about it,” said another voice. “I am Verdad, this is my wife Lolo, and
these are my in-laws Hayzooz and Mezcal.” Verdad and his family were blobby in shape and
colored in brown-and-green earth tones. “We‟ve been farmin‟ the fields for five generations.
We‟re not enjoyin‟ this change very much. I think there is nothin‟ at all we can grow on the
Moon.”
“Muy malo,” grumbled Hayzooz. “This is some ugly kilp. Why don‟t you let us fly back to the
Earth, Blaster?”
Rudy Rucker
“We‟re already in orbit,” said Blaster. “We‟re coasting. The only way you can get enough
quantum dots for a return flight is to do some work on the Moon. But, believe me, you won‟t
want to go back. You‟ll love it in the Nest. You can work in the fab growing chipmold. Or in the
pink-tanks growing organs. Or learn some hi-tech trades. You‟re moldies, for God‟s sake, not
flesher dirt farmers.”
“We‟re gonna miss the rain and the soil and the little growin‟ things.”
“The purity of the Moon is good,” said Blaster. “It is an ascetic spiritual path, but a highly
efficacious one.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
STAHN
October 31, 2053
Stahn stepped out of his fine Victorian mansion on Masonic Avenue above Haight Street in San
Francisco. It was early evening on Halloween, 2053. Walking by were lively groups of people
on their way to the Castro Street Halloween party, a traditional event now back in operation
after a brief hiatus during the anxious years surrounding the coming of the Second
Millennium. AIDS was gone, drugs were legal, and San Francisco was more fun than ever.
Stahn felt very strung out. He‟d gotten lifted on camote after his final conversation with Tre
Dietz late last night. In the afternoon, Tre had uvvied up to announce that some kind of
software agent named Jenny had shown him a secret tape of Sri Ramanujan explaining a new
piece of mathematics called the Tessellation Equation. Jenny had talked to Stahn too. She
looked like a lanky teenage farm girl. It seemed she lived inside a Heritagist computer, but that
she had very close connections to the loonie moldies. Then, in the evening, Tre had called
again—very distraught—to talk about ransoming his wife Terri from the moldies. Stahn made
some calls to the Moon to try and help out with that, and told Tre, and had then started getting
loaded as he normally did in the evening.
But then a few hours later Tre uvvied again, fantastically excited about some new vision about
how to use the Tessellation Equation to make Perplexing Poultry imipolex based on tilings of
every finite dimension. Disquietingly, this software agent Jenny thing was there on the link
with Tre, listening in. She wouldn‟t say why she was so interested in this information. But Tre
didn‟t care, his obsession was to get Stahn to understand about Perplexing Poultry in Hilbert
space, and about how Ramanujan‟s Tessellation Equation could now be used to make imipolex-
5, imipolex-6, imipolex-N!
To help himself understand the strange ideas he was hearing, Stahn drunkenly chewed up a
couple of nuggets of camote while Tre was talking. It wasn‟t the first time he‟d tried the drug,
but this time it turned out to be a big mistake, an unbearably strange lift, a psychotically
strange panic trip to deep and personal revelations about his multitudinous personality flaws.
Stahn went to bed and tried to sleep, but instead spent ten hellish hours in Hilbert space with
Tre‟s multi-dimensional Poultry pecking and clucking in the mysterious thickets of his
Rudy Rucker
chaotically disturbed consciousness. It was a relief to see dawn come, and to get up and try and
start a new day.
In the afternoon, Stahn finally managed to get some sleep, but then, around dusk, his wife
Wendy woke him.
“Get up, sleepyhead. We‟re going to the Halloween parade, remember? What the heck did you
do to yourself last night, anyway? I came downstairs and tried to talk to you, but you were
completely gaga.” She had wide hips, pert lips, a soft chin, and blonde hair. Her voice was
soothingly normal.
“I have to get up?”
“You have to get up. Here.” She handed him a big mug of tea with milk and sugar. “We‟re
walking to the Castro and meeting Saint and Babs. Our children? A family outing? Helloooo!”
“Okay, Wendy, don‟t overdo it. I‟m here. Thanks for the tea. I got lifted on camote after talking
to Tre Dietz last night. I thought it might make me smart like him. What a burn. I‟ll tell you
about it later.”
So Stahn took a shower and put on black clothes and painted his hands and face black. He
dusted himself with silver sparkles and went to stand on his front steps while waiting for
Wendy to finish getting dressed. His head hurt very deeply; he could feel the pain deep inside
his brain from the healed wounds where he‟d gotten a tank-grown pre-programmed flesh-and-
blood right hemisphere to replace the Happy Cloak that had replaced the robot rat that had
replaced his original right brain—his skull was a xoxxin‟ roach-motel and thanks to Tre he‟d
been to Hilbert space and was no doubt subject to snap back there anytime—
“Wassup, Sen-senator Stahn!” shrieked a lifted young Cicciolina from a passing gaggle of
morphs. A bride and a Betty Page were in the group as well.
“Out for a night on the town?” asked the tall bride in a deep, honking voice. “Does Wendy
know?”
The Betty Page snorted, chortled and bent over, rucking up a tight skirt to expose a reasonable
facsimile of a woman‟s naked ass. “Take a taste of Betty, Senator Moo! Relish the fine fine
superfine succulence of a bad-girl butt too good for tacos!”
The kid was trying to needle Stahn about wendy meat, but Stahn gave a politician‟s genial,
dismissive wave, expecting the morphs to move on. Most people didn‟t understand about the
The Ware Tetralogy: Freeware
wendy-meat ads; the fact that they showed Wendy with her Happy Cloak was intended to be a
positive force for human-moldie friendship.
“Shut your rude tuh-twat, Betty,” stuttered Cicciolina. “Yo-yo-yo, brah Stahn, wanna puh-peg
of gabba? It‟s straight out of the resolver; I harvested the kuh-kuh-crystals today.”
“Affirmo everplace,” said Stahn on a sudden impulse. “I can relate. Gabba gives me the yipes,
you wave, but I already got the yipes on account of what I did last night, and if I can get some
gabba-yipes happening, why then I‟ll feel normal; it‟ll be a lift instead of a drag. So come on
over here, you big deeve.”
The Cicciolina drew a squeezie out of his decolletage and strutted over to Stahn, holding the
little bulb up high like a magical lantern. “Tuh-toot the snoot, Senataroot!”
Stahn took the squeezie and pulsed a dose for each nostril. Ftooom! Fireworks of pleasure
exploded behind his eyes, a chrysanthemum bloom of evil joy, a flower with a ring of screamers
around the outer edge, screamers that floated to earth and took the form of darting, two-legged
yipes.
“Ftoom yipes,” jabbered Stahn. “Ftoom ftoom fuh-fuh-ft oom yipes.”
“Gabba hey,” said the Cicciolina. “The fringe still luh-loves you, Senator.”
“Long may it wuh-wave,” said Stahn.
The three morphs moved on, camping and laughing. Stahn looked up at his house, its windows
mellow yellow with electric light. The yipes felt good. He was lucky to have a good house in the
city. He was lucky to be alive. He was lucky to have a family. How sad it would be if all of this
should end.
With a sudden flurry of footsteps, Wendy swept out of the house and down the steps. “Hi,
Stahn! I‟m ready!” She was dressed like a witch, with high-heeled boots, long dress, large
Happy Cloak, and rakish pointed hat—all a bright, matching red. The „Cloak was a beloved
moldie that Wendy continually wore to make up for the unparalleled developmental
deficiencies caused by the fact that her body was a tank-grown clone.
“You look guh-great, Wendy. You‟re a red witch.”
“You sound funny, Stahn,” said Wendy suspiciously. “Don‟t tell me you took even more drugs!”
Rudy Rucker
“Nuh-nuh-nothing really. Some deeves gave me a pulse of guh-gabba. I‟m trying to feel normal,
you understand. We‟re wuh-walking to the Castro, right?”
“Yes. Did you wake up a dragonfly?”
“I fuh-forgot. I don‟t feel like wearing my uvvy, Wendy, not after last night. Luh-like I was
telling you, Tre Dietz uvvied me all this wuh-weird shit and and—”
“Oh, spare me the wasted slobbering. I‟ll get the dragonfly.” Wendy used her Happy Cloak to
uvvy a message, and right away a little dragonfly telerobot flew down from its perch in the
eaves of their house. The streetlights made gleaming Lissajous patterns on the dragonfly‟s
shiny, rapidly beating wings. “You stay about a block ahead of us and watch the foot traffic,”
Wendy told it, speaking out loud. “We‟re walking over the hill to Market and Castro. And keep
scanning faces for Saint and Babs. We‟re expecting you to find them.” The dragonfly whirred
away.
“Really, Stahn,” continued Wendy as they walked up Masonic together. “You‟re starting to
worry me. A man your age. Two more years and you‟ll be sixty!” Wendy was effectively eleven
years younger than Stahn, and she worked hard to keep Stahn from turning senile. “What is it
that Tre showed you anyway?”
“Perplexing Puh-Poultry N-dee,” said Stahn, clamping his hands tightly together in an effort to
hold back the gabba stutter. “Some kind of freelance software agent called Jenny told him this
thing called Ramanujan‟s Tuh-Tessellation Equation, and right away he found a new kind of
higher-dimensional quasicrystal design. The new Poultry puh-peck and peck and peck. He
wants me to suh-sell the new idea before Jenny can. And we were also talking about how to
ruh-ransom his wife.”
They paused on the saddle of the Buena Vista hill between the Haight and the Castro, catching
their breath and looking at the view. “Oh, it‟s beautiful out tonight, isn‟t it, Stahn?”
“Yeah. I‟m glad you got me to go outside.” He took a deep shaky breath, and the gabba
shuddering left the hinges of his jaws. The first part of a gabba lift was always the hardest.
“Reality is such a gas.” His words in his ears sounded smooth, pneumatic, resonant.
“What was that about ransoming Tre Dietz‟s wife?”
“The loonie moldies kidnapped her by accident yesterday. She‟s on her way to the Moon. I‟m
supposed to pay a big ransom and get Whitey Mydol and Darla Starr to pick her up. I already
transferred the credit to Whitey‟s account.”
The Ware Tetralogy: Freeware
“Whitey and Darla! But why should you have to pay for stupid Tre Dietz‟s wife?”
“He‟s made me lot of money, and this new thing‟ll make a lot more. His poor wife is up there in
the sky inside a moldie on the way to the Moon.”
“It‟s not such a bad flight,” said Wendy. “It was fun when you and me flew from the Moon to
the Earth together in 2031. It might be good for you to do it again.”
“Forget it, Wendy.” Stahn started walking again. “Which way are we supposed to go?”
“Judging from what the dragonfly‟s showing me, we should walk down Ord Court to States
Street to Castro,” said Wendy, cocking her head. “That‟s the least crowded way.” As they linked
arms and headed downhill, she turned her attention back to Stahn. “So you saw N-dimensional
Perplexing Poultry, huh? Have you ever heard the theory that mathematics keeps people
young? I think it‟s good for you to be thinking about these things. Instead of about power and
money. And all your hangovers.”
“I wish you wouldn‟t obsess about age all the time, Wendy. You know damn well that with DIM
parts and tank-grown organs, anyone with our kind of money can live to a hundred and
twenty.”
“Yes,” said Wendy. “All thanks to the wonderful compatibility of me. But because Wendy Meat
and W. M. Biologicals do, in fact, grow clones of me, I can do something better than get
patched up. I can start over in a blank twenty-five-year-old wendy. My „Cloak could transfer all
the information. I‟ve been thinking about it a lot.”
“Oh, don‟t, Wendy. What would happen to this body?” Stahn snaked his arm under Wendy‟s
Happy Cloak and around her waist to hug her. “This body I‟ve loved so long? Would you cut it
up and sell off the meat and the organs?”
“I‟m serious about this, Stahn, so don‟t try and make it hard for me. But let‟s not talk about it
now. You‟re in no condition.” She twisted away from Stahn‟s grip and brightened her voice.
“Look, we‟re almost there. And—yes!—the dragonfly just spotted the kids.”
Wendy stopped walking for a second, the better to absorb the images the dragonfly was
uvvying to her, and as she viewed them she began to laugh. “Saint is—he‟s wearing a silvered
coat and he has tinfoil on his head. And Babs is—oh, Babs—” She laughed harder. “I can hardly
describe this, Stahn. She‟s got a little tray around her waist with things on it and a terrible
yellow shirt; I have no idea what she‟s supposed to be. Let‟s hurry and meet them.”
Rudy Rucker
“Do you really want those poor children to see their mother‟s body butchered?” demanded
Stahn. “It would be traumatic. And then, once you were twenty-five, you‟d get young guys and
you wouldn‟t want me! That‟s what I get for being faithful to you all these years?”
“I said let‟s drop it. You get so dramatic when you‟re lifted! You know damn well that I‟m a
Happy Cloak, not a human body. This body—this wendy—it‟s a mindless piece of meat that I
use to walk around in and to make love to you, Stahn. You never got excited when I replaced
my imipolex every three years. If I change my flesher body, everything will be just the same.
I‟m a moldie, I‟m your wife, and I‟ll always love you. So there.”
Wendy pushed into the crowd, and Stahn followed. There were a lot of brides here tonight; that
was just about the number-one favorite costume. Other faves were strippers, debutantes,
princesses, and slaves. A few people recognized Stahn or Wendy, but most mistook them for
het looky-look tourists. “Hello, Cleveland,” sneered a skinny large-breasted morph with a
beard. A disco dandy snipped, “When you drive back to the „burbs, remember that my car is the
Mercedes and yours is the BMW.”
“I didn‟t use a car,” said Wendy pityingly, “I used my broom!” Though Stahn hadn‟t noticed it
before, Wendy was indeed holding a broom—oh yeah, it was a piece of her „Cloak that she‟d
temporarily pinched off and reshaped.
Wendy pointed Stahn in the direction where the dragonfly had shown her the kids. “Press on,
dear old fool.” Stahn fought past a man with a cardboard toilet around his head and his face
sticking out of the bowl and a plastic dick over his nose, past a woman with a leash leading a
blindfolded nude ungenitaled Barbie, past a morph with a head built up with phonybone to the
shape of a cube, past people with wings and huge flexing cocks—the crowd pressed and swirled
like the ripping currents of a particularly nasty ocean break—
“Hey, Da, Ma!” called Babs.
“Yaar!” whooped Saint.
Babs and Saint were in a doorway near the Castro Theater. Saint was a tall cheerful youth who
habitually darkened his appearance by means of odd hair, a ratty beard, silvery stun glasses,
and heavy blue suede boots. For tonight, he‟d covered his head with vintage aluminum foil
crudely wadded into the shape of a helmet, and he wore a reflective metallic fireman‟s coat that
went down to his knees.
The Ware Tetralogy: Freeware
Babs had big firm cheeks that grew pink when she was excited, like now. As part of her
costume, she wore a yellow polyester shirt with a tag saying:
HI I’M LYNNE – HAPPY DOLLAR
She held a stick bearing something like a square lantern with the numeral “3” on each of its
four sides, and around her waist was a cardboard tray with packages glued to it—cereal boxes
and udon and pho noodles and tampons and panty shields and disposable ceramic forks. Her
hair was pulled tight into a lank little ponytail that was barrette-clamped to point upward; and
to complete the groovy hairdo, she wore a wiiiiiide bandeau.
“Can you tell what I am?” chirped Babs cozily. Wendy couldn‟t guess, but Stahn recognized it
from his childhood.
“You‟re a clerk in an old-time supermarket!”
“Ye oldie checker gal,” said Babs, laughing gaily.
“What about me?” asked Saint.
“A robot?” guessed Wendy.
“Sort of,” said Saint. “ „I am Iron Man.‟ I‟ve got my stunglasses broadcasting realtime live on
the Show, you wave, and I‟m using this classic twentieth-century metal song for the
background. Listen.” He switched his uvvy to speaker mode and karaoked some crude guitar
licks. “Danh-danh deh-denh-deh. Dadadada-danh-danh-dah-dah.”
Wendy had set their dragonfly to filming the little family outing; it hovered a few feet over their
heads like a hummingbird, its wings whispering and its single bright bead-eye lens staring at
the Mooneys. Wendy and Saint could see the pictures through their uvvies.
Saint sang Iron Man some more, raising his hand toward the dragonfly in a spread-fingered
salute; Wendy could see that he was goofing on the self-images he was realtime mixing into the
ceaseless global interactive multiuser stunglasses Show. Saint saw Wendy seeing him, and he
shifted fabulations.
“Ma is Wendy the red witch,” smiled Saint. “Who are you, Da?”
“I‟m the night sky,” said Stahn, all painted black and spangled with sparkles. “As seen by a
cosmic ray from the galactic equator. How you kids floatin‟?”
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“We‟re having a good time,” said Saint. “I like how much there is to see. I‟m pulling in some
viewers. I‟m not gonna have to pay any Web charges for weeks.”
“People keep trying to take stuff off my counter,” said Babs. “And then they‟re surprised when
it‟s glued on. You look beautiful, Ma.”
“Thanks, Babs,” said Wendy. “But don‟t you think I‟d look better with an age-twenty-five
body?”
“Oh, come on, Wendy,” said Stahn.
“Let her talk, Da,” said Babs. “She‟s already told me all about it and it‟s no prob.”
“I see a group that looks funny,” said Saint, pointing. “Let‟s head that way.”
They pushed down the street toward a group of nude morphs, each painted a different primary
color and each equipped with big morph muscles. A few of them had tails. They were tossing
each other about like acrobats—with much lewd miming.
The Mooneys walked along with the happy, laughing crowd watching the acrobats for a while,
then drifted into the less crowded blocks deeper into the Mission. “I still haven‟t had supper,”
said Wendy presently. “Is anyone else hungry?”
“I am,” said Saint. “Where should we go?”
“I know a wavy Spanish place near here,” said Babs. “The Catalanic.”
“Let‟s do it,” said Stahn.
As they walked toward the restaurant, Babs began tearing items off her counter and setting
them down on doorsteps. “For the homeless,” she explained. “Anyhoo, I‟m tired of wearing all
this.” She took the cardboard counter from around her waist and skimmed it toward Saint as
hard as she could. He caught it, ran with it, flipped it onto the sidewalk, and managed to slide
about twelve feet before stumbling off, pin-wheeling his arms and yelling, “Aaawk! Happy
Dollar! Aaawk! Happy Dollar.”
The outside of the Catalanic was a warmly lit storefront painted red-and-yellow. Inside, it was
bustling and cream-colored, with a few nice things on the walls: an old Spanish clock, two
nanoprecise copies of Salvador Dali oils (Persistence of Memory and Dali at the Age of Six
Lifting the Skin of the Water to Observe a Dog Sleeping in the Shadow of the Sea), and two
nanocopied Joan Miro paintings of hairy bright lop-lop creatures (Dutch Interior I and Dutch
The Ware Tetralogy: Freeware
Interior II). There were lots of people sitting at tables covered with tapas dishes and—”Yes, of
course, Senator Mooney”—there was a table for four. Wendy‟s dragonfly telerobot perched on a
cornice across the street to wait.
The Mooneys sat down happily and fired off an order for Spanish champagne and plates of
potatoes, shrimp, spinach, pork balls, squash, chicken, mussels, endives, and more potatoes.
The bubbly and the first dishes began arriving.
“See that moldie over there with the bohos?” said Babs, waving across the room. “She‟s a friend
of mine. She‟s called Sally. She‟s so funny. One day when I was here, Sally and I fabbed about
Dali for a long time.”
Sally was sitting on a chair with a group of five lively young black-dressed artists. Sally had
been shaped like a colorful Picasso woman, but now, seeing Babs, she suddenly let her body
slump into the shape of a melting jellyfish with wrinkles that sketched a flaccid human face.
“Look,” laughed Babs. “She‟s imitating the jellyfish in Persistence of Memory. Hey, Sally! Do a
soft watch!”
While her arty friends watched admiringly, Sally formed herself into a large smoothly bulging
disk that bent in the middle to rest comfortably in her chair. She made her skin shiny—gold in
back and glassy in front with a huge watch dial with warping hands. Her soft richly computing
body drooped off the edges of her chair like a fried egg. Salvador Dali had predicted the
moldies. It was perfect.
But Stahn was too benumbed to appreciate Sally‟s visual pun. “I‟m kind of surprised they let
her in here,” he said thoughtlessly. “What with the stink.”
“Do I stink in restaurants?” demanded Wendy. “Some of us are civilized enough to know when
to close our pores. You should talk, Stahn, the way you‟ve been farting recently.”
Saint cackled to hear this. “Da stinks. Da‟s a moldie.”
Stahn quietly poured himself another glass of champagne.
“How did you like the parade, old man?” asked Babs.
“I must say, it made me feel straight. That‟s not a way I like to feel, mostly.”
“Men are so worried about being macho,” said Wendy.
Rudy Rucker
“Will everyone stop picking on me?” snapped Stahn.
“We‟re not picking on you,” said Saint, reaching over to give Stahn a caress followed by a sly
poke.
“Da is a wreck,” said Wendy. “He stayed up most of last night.”
“What did you do, Da?” asked Saint.
“Never mind.” Stahn didn‟t want to tell his kids about the camote. He was ashamed to be such
an eternal example of out-of-control drug-taking; in recent years he‟d backslid terribly. “It has
to do with this new way to control moldies.”
“Are you scheming to control me?” Wendy wondered suddenly. “Me, in the sense of Wendy‟s
Happy Cloak?”
“No,” said Stahn. “I wouldn‟t dream of it. Though it might not hurt for you to try seeing how a
leech-DIM feels sometime. They say for a moldie it‟s like being lifted. Then you‟d understand.
Instead of always being such a straight goody-goody.”
“I‟ve been busy making a farm,” said Babs, changing the subject. “Did I tell you? It‟s so floatin‟.
Place moistened humus between two glass sheets and add one pint red worms. Voila!”
“You‟re doing this for fun?” asked Stahn. “Or is it art?”
“If you mean, „Can I sell worm farms?‟—waaal, old-timer, I just dunno. So maybe it‟s fun. But,
wave, if I were to put DIM worms in with the real ones, why then it‟d be ye new Smart Art and
maybe I could sell some. But making the boxes is so damn hard. You wanna make me some
worm farm boxes, Saintey? Eeeeeew! What are those gross things crawling on your head?”
“Lice,” said Saint. He‟d taken off his foil helmet and shrugged his coat onto the back of his
chair. His hair looked like upholstery on cheap furniture—it was buzz-cut, half-bleached to a
punky orange, and there was a paisley filigree cut into it, revealing curving lines of scalp that
seemed to have small translucent insects crawling along them.
“You have lice, Saint?” exclaimed Wendy. “How filthy! We have to get you disinfected! Oh! And
we‟ve all been hugging you!”
“I think he‟s teasing you, Wendy,” said Stahn, peering closer at the tiny creatures on his son‟s
scalp. “Those are micro-DIMs. I know they‟ve been used for barbering, but I‟ve never heard of
them doing paisley before. Did you program that yourself, Saint?”
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“My friend Juanne taught the lice,” said Saint. “But I found the DIM beads. I‟ve been finding
some really floatin‟ ware in this building I‟m maintenance-managing, Da.”
“This is your new janitor job?” said Stahn.
Saint was suddenly very angry. “Don‟t you always say that, you stupid old man. A maintenance
manager is not a janitor. I like to fix things. I‟m good at it. And for you to always act like it‟s—”
Stahn winced at the intensity of his son‟s reaction. “I‟m sorry, I didn‟t mean it,” he said quickly.
“I‟m senile. When I was your age, I was Sta-Hi the taxi driver, so who am I to talk?
Maintenance is wavy. Retrofitting. Tinkering. It‟s almost like engineering.”
“Saint doesn‟t want to go to engineering school, Da,” put in Babs. “Get over it. His friends
already look up to him like a teacher.”
“They do?” asked Stahn.
“Yes,” said Saint. “I like to think about the meaning of things. And what to do with life. Every
day should be happy. My friends listen to me.”
“Well, hell,” said Stahn. “Then maybe you can be a senator.” He put up his hands cringingly.
“Just kidding!”
The waitress arrived with a pitcher of sangria, more potatoes, and the grilled prawns. Stahn
passed Saint the prawns and poured out glasses of the sangria.
“What‟s the building you‟re doing maintenance for?” Wendy asked Saint.
“Meta West Link,” said Saint. “They own the satellites and dishes for sending uvvy signals to
the Moon.”
“Wholly owned by ISDN since 2020,” put in Stahn. “I can certainly believe that Meta West
would have some interesting things in their basement.”
“Give me some DIM lice, Saintey?” pleaded Babs. “I‟ll make a Smart Art flea circus! I want lice
right now!” She crooked one arm around her brother‟s neck and began picking at his head. “I‟m
the lice doctor!” When Babs had been younger, she‟d enjoyed taking ticks off the family dog.”
“Don‟t be so disgusting, you two,” said Wendy severely. “You‟re in a restaurant. Stop it right
now.”
Rudy Rucker
The kids broke apart with a flurry of screeches and pokes, and then both of them sat there
calmly with their hands folded.
“It‟s Da‟s fault,” said Saint.
“Da did it,” added Babs.
“Da‟s bad,” said Saint.
“Da‟s lifted and drunk,” said Babs.
“Da has a drug problem,” said Saint.
Stahn got the waitress and ordered himself a brandy and an espresso. “Anyone else for coffee
or a drink? Anything? Dessert, kids?”
Saint and Babs ordered cake, but Wendy didn‟t want anything. She said she thought it was
about time they got going.
“Mind if I join you?” said Sally the moldie, suddenly appearing at the end of the table. Her body
was a cubist dream of triangles and bright colors.
“Sally, ole pal!” said Babs, hilarious on her four drinks. “Sit down.” Sally pulled up a chair and
Babs introduced her. “This is my brah and my rents—Saint, Stahn, and Wendy. This is Sally,
guys.”
“I‟ve been wanting to meet Wendy,” said Sally. “We moldies all wonder about her. How do you
do it? Emulate a human wife and mother, I mean. It‟s a pretty bizarre thing to do.”
“I‟ve been doing it so long it feels normal,” said Wendy. “Though I am getting a bit tired of this
particular human body.”
Sally produced a screw-top jar from the folds of her flesh and took off the top. “I like to have a
little rub of this when I‟m around people getting high,” she said, using a green-striped finger to
crook out a glob of ointment. She rubbed the goo into her chest and handed the jar to Wendy.
“Try some, Wendy. It‟s betty. Fine, fine betty.”
“We still have a long trek home,” objected Stahn. He counted on Wendy being the sober one.
“Just chill sometime,” said Wendy, scooping up two fingers of betty and smoothing it onto her
„Cloak self.
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By the time Sally could put the jar away, she and Wendy were completely lifted. “Wave this new
take on the soft watch,” said Sally, turning beige. In seconds she was shaped like an old-time
computer box with a monitor on it—the box melting and drooling off the edge of her chair to
make a puddle on the floor, and the monitor was displaying—the face of that Jenny-thing
who‟d been on-line with Tre Dietz last night?
At the same time, Wendy was tweaking quite savagely. Her Happy Cloak stopped being a
demure red Wendy the Witch cape and bunched up around her neck in a big convoluted green
dinosaur ruffle. “I‟ve been a good wife and mother all these years, but I don‟t want to get any
older. I want a full upgrade! You need to understand this meat body isn‟t me,” she raved.
“Watch!” The ruff on her neck bucked up, pulling a frightening tangle of rootlike connectors
out of her flesh and into the air. Wendy‟s face went slack and her head pitched forward to lie on
her crossed arms on the table. Wendy‟s „Cloak gestured nastily with its tendrils, then wormed
them back into Wendy‟s neck. Wendy straightened up, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “See?”
“We‟re outta here,” said Stahn, getting to his feet and throwing down money for the check.
“You shouldn‟t have given her that damn shit, Sally.”
“Bye, Sally,” said Wendy. She winked and pointed a finger upward. “Thanks for the lift and the
lift .”
“Have a good trip,” said Sally.
Stahn tried to take Wendy‟s arm to steady her, but she twisted away from him with frightening
vigor. She pushed out to the street, followed by her family.
“I wish I hadn‟t seen that,” said Babs quietly. “Is Ma all right?”
“We just need to get home and kick,” said Stahn. “I wonder if there‟s any chance of a rickshaw
or a streetcar. Oh good, it looks like Wendy‟s calling one.” Wendy was gesturing broadly, and
the dragonfly hopped off its perch and circled as if searching for a ride.
“It‟ll be here soon,” said Wendy, smiling crookedly. “And, kids, I‟m sorry about freaking in the
restaurant, but it‟s for true. I‟m about to shed.”
She didn‟t elaborate, and nobody knew what to say, so for a half minute the four of them just
stood there among the people and the moldies passing by. A streetcar ground past, going the
wrong way. A sudden breeze swept up from the Bay, startlingly strong and chilly. Stahn turned
his back against it, wishing he‟d worn a thicker coat. Wendy and the kids were facing him, and
for a moment he thought the kids were teasing when they began to scream.
Rudy Rucker
“Here‟s our ride, Stahn!” whooped Wendy.
The wet frigid air whirled like a tornado, and a huge blue pterodactyl shape swooped down
toward them. Its wingspan was so large that it could barely fit in between the buildings. It
would have to break through the streetcar wires if it wanted to reach them; they might have
time to escape!
“Run!” yelled Stahn. “Back in the restaurant!”
But before he could move, Wendy‟s Happy Cloak lifted off and flapped toward Stahn like a pair
of ragged bat wings. Stahn was too slowed by drink and too distracted by the sight of Wendy‟s
body falling to the ground to stop the „Cloak from wrapping itself around him. Quickly the
„Cloak sank its tendrils into Stahn‟s neck and froze him in place. Stahn stood there staring at
his children trying to tend their mother‟s imbecilic limp body—and then the great pterodactyl
pecked down in between the wires, pecked up Stahn and swallowed him and Wendy‟s Happy
Cloak whole.
Stahn heard the muffled sound of the pterodactyl‟s screeching caw of triumph, and he felt
himself borne up and away. All was dark and airless, but then the Wendy „Cloak began feeding
Stahn air and information.
“Don‟t be scared, dear Stahn,” said Wendy‟s voice. “I‟ll take care of you. Flapper here is going to
help us fly to the Moon. It‟ll be a good change of pace for you. The loonie moldies are eager for
you to visit. And I‟m going to the Nest to get a new wendy from the pink-tanks. You‟ll be
wearing me until then.”
“The Moon,” said Stahn numbly. “You‟re kidding. Who‟s Flapper?”
“She‟s like a customs official for the loonie moldies; she keeps an eye on what goes between the
Earth and the Moon. Since the loonie moldies want you to visit, Sally had the idea of asking
Flapper to come down and peck like a pterodactyl.”
“Wait a minute. Can you still see through the dragonfly? How are the children? Show them to
me.”
The Wendy „Cloak fed Stahn the uvvy image of Saint squatting by his mother‟s body, with
desperate Babs out in the street trying to flag down a rickshaw. The vacated wendy just lay
there twitching.
“Those poor children,” said Stahn, his eyes filling with tears. “Those poor, poor children.”
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“Tsk,” said the „Cloak. “It is sad. But I hope they don‟t waste a lot of money and emotion on that
brainless worn-out old body. I should have killed it before I left.” She cut off the dragonfly
video feed and all was black again.
“Wendy, what‟s happened to your feelings? Does it even make sense to call you Wendy
anymore?”
“Sure, I‟m Wendy. Yeah, I guess I am being a little cold, huh? Not too characteristic of my usual
persona.” The „Cloak giggled. “I guess it‟s the betty makes me act this way. Now you can see
how it feels, Stahn. You‟re always so heartless to me when you‟re lifted.”
“If you‟re going to nag me like a wife while I‟m wrapped up inside you, I‟m going to go crazy. I‟d
rather die! We‟re high above Earth by now, right? Why don‟t you and this damned Flapper
push me out and let me drop! Do it! I‟d be glad to die, Wendy, glad to get the endless misery
over with!”
“You just feel that way because you‟re strung out on drugs, you fool.”
“I‟m coming down again, baby! All I do is get high and come down; nobody likes me anymore;
I‟m no good to anyone; I might as well be dead; let me fuckin‟ drop and die.”
Flapper‟s soprano voice interrupted in operatic song, “I wonder if he really means it? Look at
this, Stahn Mooney!” There was a doughy rubbing against Stahn‟s body from head to toe, a
lumpy peristalsis as if he were feces being squeezed down a long rectum. The pressure on the
top of his head was great. Clever small folds in the plastic took off Stahn‟s clothes and spirited
them away.
“Yeah, pop us halfway out, Flapper,” laughed Wendy. “Let Stahn see!”
Flapper sphinctered open a hole and pushed out Stahn‟s upper body. She clamped lightly down
on the top of Stahn‟s pelvis to keep the wind from ripping him away.
So here was Stahn hanging out of a giant moldie pterodactyl‟s ass, staring down at the great
dark world below. The air beat at him, but he felt it only thinly, for the Wendy „Cloak was
stretched over him like a bubbletopper spacesuit, and the „Cloak‟s smart imipolex was
twitching and shuddering to cancel out the resonant vibrations.
Far off to the west, a crescent of the Earth was still in sunshine; it was a blazing arc of hot blue
ocean. But most of the planet was a silvery monochrome, bathed by the light of the Moon. The
high clouds beneath Stahn were stippled in a regular pattern like fish scales, a mackerel sky.
Rudy Rucker
Off to the east, the clouds transmuted into flowing mares‟ tails, with each tail shaped the same.
The world was beautiful.
“I don‟t want to die after all,” volunteered Stahn. The city of San Francisco was a speck of
brightness far far below. “How high are we?”
“Fifty miles and rising fast. Flapper‟s going to squirt you and me toward the Moon like a
torpedo when she gets to sixty miles! I don‟t have enough oomph to fly us all the way from the
Earth to the Moon, see, but with Flapper launching us we can make it. We‟ll do the next two
hundred thousand miles on our own!”
As his eyes adjusted, Stahn could make out more and more detail in the moonlit clouds below.
Once again he marveled at the world‟s fractal beauty, at its fondly loved structures recurring
across every size scale—in the clouds, the land, the sea—ah, the great living skin of sacred Gaia.
“This is wavy,” said Stahn presently.
“It‟ll take us a week to get to the Moon,” said Wendy. “Enough time for you to dry out for the
first time in years. It‟ll be like a honeymoon.”
“Except you don‟t have a human body,” said Stahn. “A body‟s considered kind of important on
a honeymoon.”
“I can give you hand jobs, Stahn. I can stick fingers up your butt. You‟ll like it. You‟ll see.”
As they flew higher and higher, the pterodactyl‟s wings grew larger and thinner, till finally she
looked like a giant stingray.
“I‟m nearly ready to launch you!” trilled the great ray‟s voice. “Let me draw you back in so I can
push you harder. Brace Stahn tight, Wendy.”
“Okay, Flapper,” said Wendy.
Flapper puckered her flesh and drew Stahn and Wendy into herself.
Stahn was starting to feel panicky. “Even if she launches us, how are you going to get the
energy to decelerate us into lunar orbit, Wendy? You‟re not very big. I doubt if you weigh more
than fifteen pounds. When you and me flew down to Earth on Spore Day in 2031, our Happy
Cloaks were beefed up to ten times that much. Are you sure you have enough stored-up energy
to keep me warm while we‟re floating though space?”
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“Flapper gets lots of energy from the Sun up here, and she stores it as quantum dots. And
Flapper‟s going to give me a whole gram! We‟ll have a full tank of gas, big guy.”
“Yes, Wendy, here come your quantum dots,” sang Flapper. “I‟m spraying them into your flesh.
And now I‟m nearly ready to birth you!”
By craning his head back, Stahn could see down the tunnel of flesh that led from inside Flapper
to the outside. The tube was more vagina than rectum now, and Stahn was a baby instead of a
turd.
“Straighten out your neck, Stahn,” said Wendy, her voice vibrant with energy. “It‟s time for me
to go rigid.” She squeezed very tightly around Stahn and made the imipolex of her flesh as stiff
as steel.
Flapper started a great loop-the-loop to bring her underside uppermost. As she rose to the top
of the loop, she bunched her body into a huge mass of muscle and pushed.
Stahn and Wendy shot out from Flapper with incredible speed; the strength of the g-forces was
such that Stahn fainted dead away.
When he came to, he was staring out into black starry space. Wendy had lost her rigidity. Stahn
could look down past his feet at the great planet Earth falling away, or crane his head back and
look up toward the disk of the Moon. The Sun was hidden behind the Earth for now.
To maintain Stahn‟s temperature, Wendy had silvered her surface inside and out; except for
the half-silvered patch over Stahn‟s eyes. Stahn spent some time moving his arms and legs and
marveling at the multiple reflections of himself, the Earth and the Moon. How beautiful it was.
But how lonely. He was all by himself, hurtling farther and farther away from home, with
nothing but a moldie „Cloak for company. Tumbling through the dark, forever alone.
“This is like a bad dream,” said Stahn.
“I like it,” said Wendy. “Are you warm enough?”
“I‟m fine.” The silvered imipolex kept Stahn comfortable, and the air in his nose was fresh and
cool.
“Should I worry about radiation?” asked Stahn. “About cosmic rays?”
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“Let‟s put it this way: your odds of cancer are going to be a little higher after this trip. And
cosmic rays can have an effect on moldies too. But we‟ll just have to grin and bear it and hope
for the best, I suppose.”
“Can you feel how hard I‟m grinning?” said Stahn. “Not. This is really selfish of you, Wendy.”
“It‟ll do you good, Stahn.”
Stahn thought longingly of his pot at home and his liquor cabinet and his squeezies of snap and
gabba. He loved all drugs except merge. He‟d been through a bad experience with merge—the
time that Darla had overdosed him on merge back on the Moon. By the time that bummer was
fully over, Stahn had lost the entire right half of his brain. What a burn.
“Uvvy the kids, can you do that? And then we should uvvy Whitey Mydol on the Moon. He
should know that we‟re coming. I guess we‟ll be landing on the Moon the day after Blaster and
Terri, right? A week from now?”
“Right. We‟re traveling along a seven-day Earth-to-Moon spacetime geodesic just like Blaster
is. He‟s a day ahead of us, yes, and we can keep checking with him. He‟ll be our closest
neighbor most of the way.”
“We can uvvy him and everyone else as much as we want to?” This thought was somewhat
comforting. Not to be wholly alone in the void.
“Well, uvvying costs us a trillion quantum dots per second per call.”
“You‟re running low on dots already?” whinnied Stahn in sudden terror. “You‟re not going to
have enough for keeping me warm and for braking our descent?”
“Not to worry,” giggled Wendy. “Flapper gave me like ten-to-the-thirtieth quantum dots. That‟s
enough energy for over a quadrillion hour-long uvvy calls. So now let‟s call the kids.”
“Yes yes, do it. You talk to them first so that they know right away that you‟re okay. You threw
quite a scare into them.”
So they talked to the kids. Babs was crying and Saint was near tears himself; Wendy‟s
abandoned body had just died. The conversation went on for a while and finally they all felt
pretty solid again.
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Next they uvvied Whitey. They were still close enough to the Earth that there was a noticeable
two- or three-second lag in round-trip transmissions to the Moon, so that call didn‟t amount to
much. And then they tried Blaster.
“Hi, guys,” uvvied Blaster‟s deep voice. “Welcome to the worm farm.” Blaster himself was a
presence made up of four or five permanently fused moldies, but his psychic uvvyspace arched
out to include the minds of the shanghaied moldies he had aboard. And down under Blaster‟s
basso profundo and the excited chatter of the moldies was Terri Percesepe.
“Hi, Terri,” said Stahn. “It‟s Stahn Mooney.”
“Oh good,” said Terri. “Tre said you‟d arranged to ransom me. But I don‟t understand the uvvy
image I see. Are you—are you out in space?”
“Yeah, I got abducted too. By my own wife, Wendy.”
“Wendy meat Wendy?” asked Terri. “Who Tre‟s always doing the ads about? I don‟t get what‟s
going on.”
“We‟re going up to the Moon so I can get a new flesh body,” said Wendy. “How is it for you guys
inside Blaster, Terri?”
“It‟s kickin‟,” put in one of the moldies. The uvvy image of Blaster showed a writhing knot of
moldies, all slowly crawling about while keeping Blaster in the same overall shape. The moldie
talking to them was bright yellow with green-and-pink fractal spirals. “This is Sunshine
fabulating atcha. My man Mr. Sparks and me are drifters, but will work for imipolex.”
“Mostly we been wandering up and down the streets of Santa Cruz stealin‟ shit and doin‟ odd
jobs to score betty,” amplified Mr. Sparks, a red snake decorated with yellow lightning bolts.
“Blaster says we‟ll like it on the Moon. Lotta lifty action there. Not to mention a good chance of
finally hooking into enough imipolex to have a kid.”
“My family is not happy about it,” said another voice. “I am Verdad, this is my wife Lolo, and
these are my in-laws Hayzooz and Mezcal.” Verdad and his family were blobby in shape and
colored in brown-and-green earth tones. “We‟ve been farmin‟ the fields for five generations.
We‟re not enjoyin‟ this change very much. I think there is nothin‟ at all we can grow on the
Moon.”
“Muy malo,” grumbled Hayzooz. “This is some ugly kilp. Why don‟t you let us fly back to the
Earth, Blaster?”
Rudy Rucker
“We‟re already in orbit,” said Blaster. “We‟re coasting. The only way you can get enough
quantum dots for a return flight is to do some work on the Moon. But, believe me, you won‟t
want to go back. You‟ll love it in the Nest. You can work in the fab growing chipmold. Or in the
pink-tanks growing organs. Or learn some hi-tech trades. You‟re moldies, for God‟s sake, not
flesher dirt farmers.”
“We‟re gonna miss the rain and the soil and the little growin‟ things.”
“The purity of the Moon is good,” said Blaster. “It is an ascetic spiritual path, but a highly
efficacious one.”
“I don‟t care how spiritual it is, as long as I can get that fresh imipolex you promised,” said the
voice of a pale white moldie covered with pimply red spots and with a sharp beak at one end.
“Buttmunch here. Gypsy and me are five years old and our upgrades are just about worn out.
We‟ve been rogues our whole lives, spent a lot of it underwater. We help smugglers bring
things in and out of Davenport Beach, and this last time we got careless and a flesher zombified
us. But Blaster says on the Moon we‟ll get new imipolex and heavy-duty tunneling ware and we
can like grind around underground, and that‟ll be stuzzy. Swimming through rock and getting
good bucks. It‟s a new lease on life.”
“Yaar, I‟m for it,” said Gypsy, who was flesh-colored and covered with fingerlike bumps like the
underside of a starfish. And like on a starfish, each flexible little finger had a sucker at its tip.
“But even so I wish we could snuff that dook Aarbie Kidd for putting the superleeches on us.
Remember that very first job you and me did, Buttmunch? The real tasty one in Aarbie‟s
cottage? When we offed that Heritagist asshole Dom Per—”
“Shut th‟ fuck up, Gyp,” interrupted Buttmunch, but it was too late.
“You killed my father?” Terri screamed. “You scummy mucus slugs killed my dad?”
“Dom fuckin‟ burned Aarbie twice,” snapped Gypsy. “Me and Buttmunch were just youngsters
anyhow. You don‟t like it, spoiled little rich bitch Terri Percesepe, then why don‟t you go on and
jump off the ship. Or maybe I should crawl over there and teach you a fuckin‟—ow!”
“I‟m right next to you, Gypsy,” said Xlotl‟s voice. “And so‟s Monique. Push harder, Monique.”
In the background, Blaster started laughing.
“Hey, quit it!” yelled Gypsy. “Help me, Buttmunch! They‟re trying to squeeze me in half!”
The Ware Tetralogy: Freeware
“You be nice to Terri,” said Monique, her voice tight and hard as she and Xlotl hour-glassed
Gypsy‟s waist. “Or—”
“Hey, hey, hey,” interrupted Stahn, trying to be senatorial. “Simmer down over there. We‟ve got
six more days ahead of us. Make them stop, Blaster!”
“I wouldn‟t dream of it,” chortled Blaster. “The fighting dogpile is an essential stage of my
moldies‟ journey to liberation. Xanana and I will keep an eye on Terri, won‟t we, Xan‟?”
“Of course. But frankly I‟d rather not have to be Terri‟s life support for the whole way. The
whole whole way. The whole whole whole way. Someone else should do it for a while. Monique.
After all, it‟s Monique who got our family into this. Whoring for that Heritagist zerk Randy Karl
Tucker.”
“You‟re a real DIM head, Monique,” put in Ouish, who was squeezed up against Xanana. She
wormed out a long tendril and gave Monique a sharp poke.
“Fightin’ dogpile,” repeated Blaster happily. “You‟re a spunky bunch of recruits.”
“Um, speaking of Heritagists?” uvvied a new voice. “This is Jenny from Salt Lake City?” The
visage of a lank, immature country gal appeared in the shared uvvyspace. “Hellooo there! You
guys ought to realize that some of us so-called Heritagists are really and truly working for the
Nest.”
“Oh God, not her again,” said Stahn. “I‟ve heard enough for now, Wendy.” Wendy closed their
connection and they went off -line.
The better part of a week went by, and Stahn started feeling a lot healthier. Having the drugs
leave his system felt like having shiploads of life come up a river to be unloaded on his front
steps. Whenever things started to lag, he and Wendy would make uvvy calls.
The day before Stahn and Wendy were due to land, Jenny‟s uvvy presence popped up again. It
was while Stahn and Wendy were talking to Blaster.
“Hi, gang,” said Jenny‟s callow giggly voice in the common uvvyspace. “Good news, Wendy,
I‟ve just arranged for you to download your personality for safekeeping, in case something
happens to you during landing.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” said Wendy. “But no way am I downloading to Salt Lake City.”
Rudy Rucker
“Heavens no,” said Jenny after a pause. “You‟ll download to the Nest. You‟ve heard of Willy
Taze? One of his friends in the Nest is a moldie called Frangipane. Frangipane is all set for you.
Speak up now, Frangipane. Don‟t be shy!”
“Yes, I‟m here,” said a clear sweet voice with a French accent. “I am logged on to your
uvvyspace. Bonjour, tout le monde. This is Frangipane in the Nest. I have an S-cube all
prepared for you, Wendy.” Visible via the uvvy link, Frangipane resembled an oversized exotic
orchid, a chaotically pulsing construct of delicately shaded ruffles and petals.
“Well, okay then, here I come,” said Wendy. There was a slow hum for several seconds while
she sent her info across the short clear span of space down to the Nest. “All done,” said Wendy
then, fairly chirping with enthusiasm. “My, that felt good! I‟m so much more secure now. Too
bad we can‟t do the same for Stahn without taking him apart.”
“We can talk about that on the Moon if he has interest,” said Frangipane. “My lover Ormolu
has some knowledge of the lost wetware arts.” Ormolu waved from the background. He looked
like a blobby gilt cupid from an antique clock.
“Put a cork in it,” said Stahn. “I don‟t want to get vivisected the way Cobb Anderson did.”
“What about me?” interrupted Blaster. “Why doesn‟t the Nest ever do a pre-landing backup for
me or my recruits? Aren‟t I as important as Wendy?”
“You are too big, Blaster,” said Frangipane. “And no, you are not really so important, I regret to
say. In any case, I don‟t have the resources to make any other backups. Your new recruits
should just be happy that we have jobs for them.”
“Xoxx you, then,” said Blaster. “I don‟t need your help anyway. I‟ve made this landing without a
problem plenty of times.”
“That‟s right. And you should not have a problem today.”
“Yeah, and just to make sure and keep it that way, I‟m not taking any more calls. I don‟t feel
good at all about getting uvvied by your Heritagist friend Jenny while I‟m in landing
countdown mode. I‟m going to take this up with the Nest Council later.” Huffy Blaster went off
-line.
A few hours later, just before Blaster was scheduled to land, Wendy and Stahn got a call. They
expected it to be Blaster, but it was Frangipane, her petals blushing and a-flutter.
The Ware Tetralogy: Freeware
“Bonjour,” said the moldie. “There‟s no good way to explain about this, Wendy, but it seems we
in the Nest are finally ready to attempt a full Gurdle decryption with a moldie as host. We have
tested it on some Silly Putters this morning, and now we‟re going to try it on you. It seems safer
with you out in space, and with wise old Senator Mooney inside you. Be of good courage!”
Before they could protest, a sudden sharp crackle of petabyte information hiss came over the
uvvy—a virus!
Stahn told Wendy to turn it off, but Wendy was already gone. The noise lasted for what seemed
like a very long time, the sound so densely fractal and impossible to ignore that Stahn started
hearing nutso voices in it. And there was nothing to do but grit his teeth until finally the
connection broke. And then Wendy started making a noise; long, slow, rising whoops, each
about one second long.
“Whooop whooop whooop whooop—”
“What‟s the matter, Wendy?”
“Whooop whooop whooop whooop whooop whooop—”
Frangipane‟s info had set Wendy to shivering. She was so tightly linked to Stahn that he could
see down into her and feel it like it was happening to himself. Piezoplastic vibrations deep
inside Wendy were crisscrossing and spewing cascades of phonons down into the live net of her
quasicrystalline structure. And the structure was spontaneously deforming like someone was
turning a dial on the Tessellation Equation, causing the structure of Wendy‟s plastic to slide-
whistle its way up the scale through 4D, 5D, 6D, 7D . . . on and on, with each level happening
twice as fast as the one before, so that—it felt like to Stahn, at least—Wendy was going through
infinitely many dimensional arrangements in each second. And then starting right up again.
Whooop whooop whooop whooop. Wendy‟s imipolex was like a scanner going over and over
the channels, alef null channels zeno-paradoxed into every second and suddenly—Stahn
flashed an eidetic mental image of this—a cosmic ray in the form of a sharp-edged infinite-
dimensional Hilbert prism slammed into Wendy and lodged itself in her plastic flesh, working
its way through and through her like a migrating fragment of shrapnel. The shudderingly rising
dimensionality of Wendy‟s quasicrystalline structure caught the wave of information and
amplified it. The info surfed Wendy‟s whoop and blossomed suddenly inside her like a great
still explosion in deep space.
“*Ffzzzt!* crackle gonnnnng—hello, I am Quuz from Sun.”
Rudy Rucker
At first Stahn was in denial. “Aw, Wendy, why you gotta lay such a weird trip on me, us floating
here in outer space halfway to the Moon, I mean what the—”
“What manner of creature are you—Stahn Mooney?”
The sincerity of the question struck a chill into Stahn‟s heart. “Stop it, Wendy! Wendy?”
“Wendy is dead, Stahn Mooney. I am Quuz from Sun.”
“Help! Uvvy someone for help! Frangipane? Are you there? We‟ve got to warn Blaster!”
“How do I uvvy Blaster?” asked the mighty Quuz voice, and before Stahn thought the better of
it, he showed Quuz where Wendy had kept her dial-up protocols, and Quuz dialed Blaster and
the connection formed, even though Blaster didn‟t want it to, and Quuz fed Blaster the same
skirling crackle that Frangipane had fed to Wendy just a minute or two before.

THE WARE TETRALOGY. Rudy Rucker. Prime Books, 2010.

SUI GENERIS: A TESTIMONY
by WILLIAM GIBSON
Genuinely sui generis novelists operate at an inherent disadvantage, and all the more so in any
so-called genre.
Genre is that dubious bargain whereby the reader is offered (for our present purposes) a novel,
a form whose very name promises a new experience, but offers, in genre, the implicit and
crucial promise of the repetition of previous pleasures.
Rudy Rucker has never trafficked in that repetition, and while he unabashedly loves the genre
in which he tends to be marketed, he transcends it, or perhaps engulfs it, in his singularity.
You‟ll see this said about all too many science fiction writers, given novelty‟s supposed (and
largely spurious, in my view) importance to the genre, but of Rudy it‟s quite literally true. He is
one splendidly odd duck, balanced between pure mathematics on the one hand and
spontaneous bop prosody on the other, while uncounted further hands (or paws, in some
cases) flicker in from their individual Hilbert spaces, bearing cups, wands, alien sex toys,
artifacts out of Roadrunner cartoons, terrible jokes, gleefully fell dooms, and lubricating dabs
of mentholated ichor.
Scarily bright, and a card-carrying Holy Fool who‟s managed to fall off every cliff but the only
really wrong ones, he used to frighten me.
In part, no doubt, because he‟s the only higher mathematician I‟ve ever known, while I am
myself virtually an innumerate. I knew from the very start of our acquaintance (from before,
actually, as I read him before I met him) that he habitually, effortlessly, visited realms I was
literally incapable of envisioning, let alone visiting. He also frightened me because, though
generally convivial, he seemed to me to teeter atop an angelic pinhead of purest Random,
The Ware Tetralogy
causing me the constant apprehension that he might at any second do or say literally anything
at all. As I was secretly attempting to negotiate my own life and literary career with the
emergency brake on, this made me complexly uneasy. He seemed starry-eyed with the sheer
joy of forgetting the brakes entirely.
I found him unsettling in another way as well, though that was not so much about him as about
something we had in common. Being at least a decade older than the rest of our cyberpunk
cohort, we were both veterans of (ahem) “the Sixties”. Which was to say that we had once been
somewhere very strange and new indeed, but that that tide had somehow receded, leaving us in
some new but actually markedly unstrange iteration of a world we had once expected to change
utterly. Whenever I ran into Rudy, over the first decade or so of my career, I worried that we
were both actually too old for this. But then I‟d note the shiver of angelic pinhead-wobble, and
in some paradoxical way be comforted thereby. (“And at the time,” Rudy wrote to me recently,
“I thought we were jaded roués!”)
***
Before I read or met Rudy, I‟d lived for several seasons in Washington, D.C., with a roommate
who at some point went up to New York to see a great retrospective show of the Surrealists,
kindly and hugely formatively bringing me the show‟s catalog as a gift. I had heard of
Surrealism, but had never really put together what it was. That catalog became a sort of Rosetta
Stone for me, a way of decoding and assembling a great many very diverse things that I had
encountered in art and literature, things I had known were similar, in some way, but without
really understanding how.
The capital-s Surrealism, SurrealismTM, was splendid stuff, but I now recognized a similar but
lower-case impulse in virtually everything that had ever attracted me in the popular arts. I saw
it in Mad Magazine (and particularly in its imitators), in Forrest J. Ackerman‟s gloriously
cheesy Famous Monsters Of Filmland, in Rod Serling‟s The Twilight Zone, in Zap Comics. And
I saw it, of course, in the prose science fiction I had grown up with: a folk surrealism, a street
surrealism, entirely free of Breton‟s faux-papal excommunications and other tedious hi-jinx. It
was, I saw, to certain forms of popular art, and most particularly to the flavors of science fiction
that had worked best for me, the equivalent of the ethanol molecules in an alcoholic beverage.
So I filed that one away, and went about my business, such as it was.
Later, encountering first the fiction and then its author, I took it instantly for granted that in
Rudy Rucker I found an exemplar of that very thing, a natural-born American street surrealist,
bordering at times on a practitioner of Art Brute.
The Ware Tetralogy
Rudy‟s fiction has a much higher percentage of surrealism molecules than most fiction, science
or otherwise. It has, as moonshiners say when they swirl whiskey in a glass, in order to closely
observe how it settles back down the sides of the glass, “good legs”. Rudy‟s fiction is probably a
bit too strong, in that regard, for some readers, but even the hard stuff, let me assure you, is an
enjoyably acquired taste.
And I‟m no longer afraid of Rudy. We‟re both (even) older, and vibrate now at more
authentically geezeroid frequencies. And I no longer feel that the world outside the window
isn‟t as freaky as the ones we glimpsed back in the Sixties. It is. With bells on.
Now go and read Rudy Rucker, in the 21st century. Dude‟s sui generis. And has good legs.
—17 December 2008, Vancouver

Parentesis     J junction   (Unión Josephson  Unión J)

*[     wikipedia

Brian David Josephson, FRS (born 4 January 1940), is a Welsh theoretical physicist and professor emeritus of physics at the University of Cambridge.[3] Best known for his pioneering work on superconductivity and quantum tunnelling, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics in 1973 for his prediction of the eponymous Josephson effect, made in 1962 when he was a 22-year-old PhD student at Cambridge. Josephson is the only Welsh person to have won a Nobel Prize in Physics. He shared the prize with physicists Leo Esaki and Ivar Giaever, who jointly received half the award for their own work on quantum tunnelling.[4]

Josephson has spent his academic career as a member of the Theory of Condensed Matter group at Cambridge’s Cavendish Laboratory. He has been a fellow of Trinity College since 1962, and served as professor of physics from 1974 until 2007.[4]

In the early 1970s Josephson took up transcendental meditation and turned his attention to issues outside the parameters of mainstream science. He set up the Mind–Matter Unification Project at the Cavendish to explore the idea of intelligence in nature, the relationship between quantum mechanics and consciousness, and the synthesis of science and Eastern mysticism, broadly known as quantum mysticism.[5] Those interests have led him to express support for topics such as parapsychology, water memory and cold fusion, and have made him a focus of criticism from fellow scientists.[4]

Contents

Early life and career

Education

photograph

Entrance to the old Cavendish Laboratory on Free School Lane, Cambridge.

Josepson was born in Cardiff, Wales, to Jewish parents, Mimi (née Weisbard, 1911–1998) and Abraham Josephson.[2] He attended Cardiff High School, where he credits some of the school masters for having helped him, particularly the physics master, Emrys Jones, who introduced him to theoretical physics.[6] In 1957 he went up to Cambridge, where he read mathematics at Trinity College. After completing Maths Part II in two years, and finding it somewhat sterile, he decided to switch to physics.[7]

Josephson was known at Cambridge as a brilliant, but shy, student. Physicist John Waldram recalled overhearing Nicholas Kurti, an examiner from Oxford, discuss Josephson’s exam results with David Shoenberg, then reader in physics at Cambridge, and asking: “Who is this chap Josephson? He seems to be going through the theory like a knife through butter.”[8] While still an undergraduate, he published a paper on the Mössbauer effect, pointing out a crucial issue other researchers had overlooked. According to one eminent physicist speaking to Physics World, Josephson wrote several papers important enough to assure him a place in the history of physics even without his discovery of the Josephson effect.[9]

He graduated in 1960 and became a research student in the university’s Mond Laboratory on the old Cavendish site, where he was supervised by Brian Pippard.[10] American physicist Philip Anderson, also a Nobel Prize winner, spent a year in Cambridge in 1961–1962, and recalled that having Josephson in a class was “a disconcerting experience for a lecturer, I can assure you, because everything had to be right or he would come up and explain it to me after class.”[11] It was during this period, as a PhD student in 1962, that he carried out the research that led to his discovery of the Josephson effect; Cambridge unveiled a plaque on the Mond Building dedicated to the discovery in November 2012.[12] He was elected a fellow of Trinity College in 1962, and obtained his PhD in 1964 for a thesis entitled Non-linear conduction in superconductors.[13]

Discovery of the Josephson effect

Further information: Josephson effect

Josephson was 22 years old when he did the work on quantum tunnelling that won him the Nobel Prize. He discovered that a supercurrent could tunnel through a thin barrier, predicting, according to physicist Andrew Whitaker, that “at a junction of two superconductors, a current will flow even if there is no drop in voltage; that when there is a voltage drop, the current should oscillate at a frequency related to the drop in voltage; and that there is a dependence on any magnetic field.”[14] This became known as the Josephson effect and the junction as a Josephson junction.[15]

One-volt NIST Josephson junction array standard with 3020 superconducting junctions.

His calculations were published in Physics Letters (chosen by Pippard because it was a new journal) in a paper entitled “Possible new effects in superconductive tunnelling,” received on 8 June 1962 and published on 1 July.[16] They were confirmed experimentally by Philip Anderson and John Rowell of Bell Labs in Princeton; this appeared in their paper, “Probable Observation of the Josephson Superconducting Tunneling Effect,” submitted to Physical Review Letters in January 1963.[17]

Before Anderson and Rowell confirmed the calculations, the American physicist John Bardeen, who had shared the 1956 Nobel Prize in Physics (and who shared it again in 1972), objected to Josephson’s work. He submitted an article to Physical Review Letters on 25 July 1962, arguing that “there can be no such superfluid flow.” The disagreement led to a famous confrontation in September that year at Queen Mary College, London, at the Eighth International Conference on Low Temperature Physics. When Bardeen (then one of the most eminent physicists in the world) began speaking, Josephson (still a student) stood up and interrupted him. The men exchanged views, reportedly in a civil and soft-spoken manner. Donald G. McDonald described the discussion as “youth versus maturity, daring spirit versus depth of experience, and mathematics versus intuition.” Josephson, as it turned out, was right.[18]

Whitaker writes that the discovery of the Josephson effect led to “much important physics,” including the invention of SQUIDs (superconducting quantum interference devices), which are used in geology to make highly sensitive measurements, as well as in medicine and computing.[19] IBM used Josephson’s work in 1980 to build a prototype of a computer that would be up to 100 times faster than the IBM 3033 mainframe.[20]

Nobel Prize

photograph

Mond Building on the old Cavendish site where Josephson worked. (The crocodile is there in honour of Ernest Rutherford (1871–1937).)[21]

Josephson was awarded several important prizes for his discovery, including the 1969 Research Corporation Award for outstanding contributions to science,[22] and the Hughes Medal and Holweck Prize in 1972. In 1973 he won the Nobel Prize in Physics, sharing the $122,000 award with two other scientists who had also worked on quantum tunnelling. Josephson was awarded half the prize “for his theoretical predictions of the properties of a supercurrent through a tunnel barrier, in particular those phenomena which are generally known as the Josephson effects.”[23]

The other half of the award was shared equally by Japanese physicist Leo Esaki of the Thomas Watson Research Center in Yorktown, New York, and Norwegian-American physicist Ivar Giaever of General Electric in Schenectady, New York, “for their experimental discoveries regarding tunneling phenomena in semiconductors and superconductors, respectively.”[24] Unusually, none of the winners had held professorships before being awarded the prize.[25]

Positions held

Josephson spent a postdoctoral year in the United States (1965–1966) as research assistant professor at the University of Illinois. After returning to Cambridge, he was made assistant director of research at the Cavendish Laboratory in 1967, where he remained a member of the Theory of Condensed Matter group, a theoretical physics group, for the rest of his career.[26] He was elected a fellow of the Royal Society in 1970, and the same year was awarded a National Science Foundation fellowship by Cornell University, where he spent one year. In 1972 he became a reader in physics at Cambridge and in 1974 a full professor, a position he held until he retired in 2007.[27]

A practitioner of transcendental meditation (TM) since the early seventies, Josephson became a visiting faculty member in 1975 of the Maharishi European Research University in the Netherlands, part of the TM movement.[28] He also held visiting professorships at Wayne State University in 1983, the Indian Institute of Science, Bangalore in 1984, and the University of Missouri-Rolla in 1987.[29]

Parapsychology

Early interest, transcendental meditation

Further information: Parapsychology and Quantum mind

photograph

Josephson became a fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge in 1962. The college has a history of interest in parapsychology.

Josephson became interested in the late sixties in the mind–body problem, and is one of the few scientists to argue that parapsychological phenomena (telepathy, psychokinesis and other paranormal themes) may be real.[30] In 1971 he began practising transcendental meditation (TM), which had become popular with several celebrities, most famously the Beatles.[31]

Winning the Nobel Prize in 1973 gave him the freedom to work in less orthodox areas, and he became increasingly involved – including during science conferences, to the irritation of fellow scientists – in talking about meditation, telepathy and higher states of consciousness.[32] In 1974 he angered scientists during a colloquium of molecular and cellular biologists in Versailles by inviting them to read the Bhagavad Gita (5th – 2nd century BCE) and the work of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, the founder of the TM movement, and by arguing about special states of consciousness achieved through meditation. “Nothing forces us,” one scientist shouted at him, “to listen to your wild speculations.” Biophysicist Henri Atlan wrote that the session ended in uproar.[33]

In May that year Josephson addressed a symposium held to welcome the Maharishi to Cambridge.[34] The following month, at the first Canadian conference on psychokinesis, he was one of 21 scientists who tested claims by Matthew Manning, a Cambridgeshire teenager who said he had psychokinetic abilities; Josephson apparently told a reporter that he believed Manning’s powers were a new kind of energy.[35] He later withdrew or corrected the statement.[36]

Josephson said that Trinity College’s long interest in the paranormal meant that he did not dismiss these ideas out of hand.[37] Several presidents of the Society for Psychical Research had been fellows of Trinity, and the Perrott-Warrick Fund, set up in Trinity in 1937 to fund parapsychology research, is still administered by the college.[38] He continued to explore the idea that there is intelligence in nature, particularly after reading Fritjof Capra‘s The Tao of Physics (1975),[39] and in 1979 took up a more advanced form of TM, known as the TM-Sidhi program. According to Anderson, the TM movement produced a poster showing Josephson levitating several inches above the floor.[40] Josephson argued that meditation could lead to mystical and scientific insights, and that, as a result of it, he had come to believe in a creator.[41]

Fundamental Fysiks Group

Further information: Fundamental Fysiks Group
External images
Fundamental Fysiks Group in 1975. Left to right: Jack Sarfatti, Saul-Paul Sirag, Nick Herbert, and Fred Alan Wolf (seated)

photograph

Cambridge unveiled a plaque on the Mond Building in November 2012 dedicated to the discovery of the Josephson effect.[12]

Josephson became involved in the mid-seventies with a group of physicists associated with the Lawrence Berkeley Laboratory at the University of California, Berkeley, who were investigating paranormal claims. They had organized themselves loosely into something called the Fundamental Fysiks Group, and had effectively become the Stanford Research Institute’s (SRI) “house theorists,” according to historian of science David Kaiser.[42]

There was a lot of popular and government interest at the time in quantum mechanics – the American government was financing research at SRI into telepathy – and physicists able to understand it found themselves in demand. The Fundamental Fysiks Group used ideas from quantum physics, particularly Bell’s theorem and quantum entanglement, to explore issues such as action at a distance, clairvoyance, precognition, remote viewing and psychokinesis.[43]

In 1976 Josephson travelled to California to meet two leading members of the group, laser physicists Russell Targ and Harold Puthoff, authors of Mind Reach (1977). Targ and Puthoff had set up a parapsychology (“psi“) lab at SRI and had had papers published about their work – which included testing later-discredited claims by Uri Geller that he could make objects move using psychokinesis – in Nature and other peer-reviewed journals. The San Francisco Chronicle covered Josephson’s visit.[44]

Josephson co-organized a symposium on consciousness at Cambridge in 1978, publishing the proceedings as Consciousness and the Physical World (1980),[45] with neuroscientist V. S. Ramachandran. A conference on “Science and Consciousness” followed a year later in Cordoba, Spain, attended by physicists and Jungian psychoanalysts, and addressed by Josephson, Fritjof Capra and David Bohm (1917–1992).[46]

By 1996 he had set up the Mind–Matter Unification Project at the Cavendish Laboratory to explore intelligent processes in nature.[47] In 2002 he told Physics World: “Future science will consider quantum mechanics as the phenomenology of particular kinds of organised complex system. Quantum entanglement would be one manifestation of such organisation, paranormal phenomena another.”[9]

Reception, views on science

Josephson delivered the Pollock Memorial Lecture in 2006, the Hermann Staudinger Lecture in 2009 and the Sir Nevill Mott Lecture in 2010.[48]

Josephson on a Cambridge Wikimedia walk in September 2014

Matthew Reisz wrote in Times Higher Education in 2010 that Josephson has long been one of physics’s “more colourful figures.”[49] His support for unorthodox causes has attracted criticism from fellow scientists since the 1970s, including from Philip Anderson.[50] Josephson regards the criticism as prejudice, and believes that it has served to deprive him of an academic support network.[51]

He has repeatedly criticized “science by consensus,” arguing that the scientific community is too quick to reject certain kinds of ideas. “Anything goes among the physics community – cosmic wormholes, time travel,” he argues, “just so long as it keeps its distance from anything mystical or New Age-ish.” Referring to this position as “pathological disbelief,”[52] he holds it responsible for the rejection by academic journals of papers on the paranormal.[53] He has compared parapsychology to the theory of continental drift, proposed in 1912 by Alfred Wegener (1880–1930) to explain observations that were otherwise inexplicable, which was resisted and ridiculed until evidence led to its acceptance after Wegener’s death.[54]

Science writer Martin Gardner criticized Josephson in 1980 for complaining to the New York Review of Books, along with three other physicists, about an article by J. A. Wheeler that ridiculed parapsychology.[55] Several physicists complained in 2001 when, in a Royal Mail booklet celebrating the Nobel Prize’s centenary, Josephson wrote that Britain was at the forefront of research into telepathy.[56] Physicist David Deutsch said the Royal Mail had “let itself be hoodwinked” into supporting nonsense, although another physicist, Robert Matthews, suggested that Deutsch was skating on thin ice given the latter’s own work on parallel universes and time travel.[57]

In 2004 Josephson criticized an experiment by the Committee for Skeptical Inquiry to test claims by Russian schoolgirl Natasha Demkina that she could see inside people’s bodies using a special kind of vision. The experiment involved her being asked to match six people to their confirmed medical conditions (plus one with none); to pass the test she had to make five correct matches, but made only four.[58] Josephson argued that this was statistically significant, and that the experiment had set her up to fail. One of the researchers, Richard Wiseman, professor of psychology at the University of Hertfordshire, responded that Josephson had no record of publishing on parapsychology.[59] Keith Rennolis, professor of applied statistics at the University of Greenwich, supported Josephson’s position.[60]

Josephson’s reputation for promoting unorthodox causes was cemented by his support for the ideas of water memory and cold fusion, both of which are rejected by mainstream scientists. Water memory is purported to provide an explanation for homeopathy; it is mostly dismissed by scientists as pseudoscience, although Josephson has expressed support for it since attending a conference at which French immunologist Jacques Benveniste first proposed it.[61] Cold fusion is the hypothesis that nuclear reactions can occur at room temperature. When Martin Fleischmann, the British chemist who pioneered research into it, died in 2012, Josephson wrote a supportive obituary in the Guardian and complained to Nature that its obituary had failed to give Fleischmann due credit.[62] Antony Valentini of Imperial College London withdrew Josephson’s invitation to a 2010 conference on the de Broglie-Bohm theory because of his work on the paranormal, although it was reinstated after complaints. ]

Saint Mooney (2031)
Babs Mooney (2033)
Darla Starr (2004) + Whitey Mydol (2000) + Emul (2028) + Berenice (2028)
Yoke Starr (2031)
Joke Starr (2031)
Dom Stagnaro (1998) + Alice Drift (2000)
Tre Dietz (2027) + Terri Stagnaro (2026)
Dolf Dietz (2049)
Ike Stagnaro (2028)
Wren Dietz (2052)
Berdoo Scragg (1994) + Rainbow Plenty (1999)
Tempest Plenty (1994)
Starshine Plenty (2021) + Duck Tapin (2016)
Everooze (2042) + Andrea (2043)
Ouish (2050 + Xanana (2049)
Monique (2052) + Xlotl (2052)
Kurt Gottner (2000) + Eve Gottner (2001)
Phil Gottner (2030)
Jane Gottner (2032)

SOFTWARE
For Al Humboldt, Embry Rucker, and Dennis Poague

CHAPTER ONE
Cobb Anderson would have held out longer, but you don‟t see dolphins every day. There were
twenty of them, fifty, rolling in the little gray waves, wicketting up out of the water. It was good
to see them. Cobb took it for a sign and went out for his evening sherry an hour early.
The screen door slapped shut behind him and he stood uncertainly for a moment, dazed by the
late afternoon sun. Annie Cushing watched him from her window in the cottage next door.
Beatles music drifted out past her.
“You forgot your hat,” she advised. He was still a good-looking man, barrel-chested and
bearded like Santa Claus. She wouldn‟t have minded getting it on with him, if he weren‟t so . . .
“Look at the dolphins, Annie. I don‟t need a hat. Look how happy they are. I don‟t need a hat
and I don‟t need a wife.” He started toward the asphalt road, walking stiffly across the crushed
white shells.
Annie went back to brushing her hair. She wore it white and long, and she kept it thick with
hormone spray. She was sixty and not too brittle to hug. She wondered idly if Cobb would take
her to the Golden Prom next Friday.
The long last chord of “Day in the Life” hung in the air. Annie couldn‟t have said which song
she had just heard—after fifty years her responses to the music were all but extinguished—but
she walked across the room to turn the stack of records over. If only something would happen,
she thought for the thousandth time. I get so tired of being me.
At the Superette, Cobb selected a chilled quart of cheap sherry and a damp paper bag of boiled
peanuts. And he wanted something to look at.
The Superette magazine selection was nothing compared to what you could get over in Cocoa.
Cobb settled finally for a love-ad newspaper called Kiss and Tell. It was always good and weird
. . . most of the advertisers were seventy-year-old hippies like himself. He folded the first-page
picture under so that only the headline showed. PLEASE PHEEZE ME.
Funny how long you can laugh at the same jokes, Cobb thought, waiting to pay. Sex seemed
odder all the time. He noticed the man in front of him, wearing a light-blue hat blocked from
plastic mesh.
The Ware Tetralogy: Software
If Cobb concentrated on the hat he saw an irregular blue cylinder. But if he let himself look
through the holes in the mesh he could see the meek curve of the bald head underneath. Skinny
neck and a light-bulb head, clawing in his change. A friend.
“Hey, Farker.”
Farker finished rounding up his nickels, then turned his body around. He spotted the bottle.
“Happy Hour came early today.” A note of remonstrance. Farker worried about Cobb.
“It‟s Friday. Pheeze me tight.” Cobb handed Farker the paper.
“Seven eighty-five,” the cashier said to Cobb. Her white hair was curled and hennaed. She had a
deep tan. Her flesh had a pleasingly used and oily look to it.
Cobb was surprised. He‟d already counted money into his hand. “I make it six fifty.” Numbers
began sliding around in his head.
“I meant my box number,” the cashier said with a toss of her head. “In the Kiss and Tell.” She
smiled coyly and took Cobb‟s money. She was proud of her ad this month. She‟d gone to a
studio for the picture.
Farker handed the paper back to Cobb outside. “I can‟t look at this, Cobb. I‟m still a happily
married man, God help me.”
“You want a peanut?”
“Thanks.” Farker extracted a soggy shell from the little bag. There was no way his spotted and
trembling old hands could have peeled the nut, so he popped it whole into his mouth. After a
minute he spit the hull out.
They walked towards the beach, eating pasty peanuts. They wore no shirts, only shorts and
sandals. The afternoon sun beat pleasantly on their backs. A silent Mr. Frostee truck cruised
past.
Cobb cracked the screw-top on his dark-brown bottle and took a tentative first sip. He wished
he could remember the box number the cashier had just told him. Numbers wouldn‟t stay still
for him anymore. It was hard to believe he‟d ever been a cybernetician. His memory ranged
back to his first robots and how they‟d learned to bop . . .
Rudy Rucker
“Food drop‟s late again,” Farker was saying. “And I hear there‟s a new murder cult up in
Daytona. They‟re called the Little Kidders.” He wondered if Cobb could hear him. Cobb was
just standing there with empty colorless eyes, a yellow stain of sherry on the dense white hair
around his lips.
“Food drop,” Cobb said, suddenly coming back. He had a way of re-entering a conversation by
confidently booming out the last phrase which had registered. “I‟ve still got a good supply.”
“But be sure to eat some of the new food when it comes,” Farker cautioned. “For the vaccines.
I‟ll tell Annie to remind you.”
“Why is everybody so interested in staying alive? I left my wife and came down here to drink
and die in peace. She can‟t wait for me to kick off. So why . . .” Cobb‟s voice caught. The fact of
the matter was that he was terrified of death. He took a quick, medicinal slug of sherry.
“If you were peaceful, you wouldn‟t drink so much,” Farker said mildly. “Drinking is the sign of
an unresolved conflict.”
“No kidding,” Cobb said heavily. In the golden warmth of the sun, the sherry had taken quick
effect. “Here‟s an unresolved conflict for you.” He ran a fingernail down the vertical white scar
on his furry chest. “I don‟t have the money for another second-hand heart. In a year or two this
cheapie‟s going to poop out on me.”
Farker grimaced. “So? Use your two years.”
Cobb ran his finger back up the scar, as if zipping it up. “I‟ve seen what it‟s like, Farker. I‟ve had
a taste of it. It‟s the worst thing there is.” He shuddered at the dark memory . . . teeth, ragged
clouds . . . and fell silent.
Farker glanced at his watch. Time to get going or Cynthia would . . .
“You know what Jimi Hendrix said?” Cobb asked. Recalling the quote brought the old
resonance back into his voice. “When it‟s my time to die, I‟m going to be the one doing it. So as
long as I‟m alive, you let me live my way.”
Farker shook his head. “Face it, Cobb, if you drank less you‟d get a lot more out of life.” He
raised his hand to cut off his friend‟s reply. “But I‟ve got to get home. Bye bye.”
“Bye.”
The Ware Tetralogy: Software
Cobb walked to the end of the asphalt and over a low dune to the edge of the beach. No one was
there today, and he sat down under his favorite palm tree.
The breeze had picked up a little. Warmed by the sand, it lapped at Cobb‟s face, buried under
white whiskers. The dolphins were gone.
He sipped sparingly at his sherry and let the memories play. There were only two thoughts to
be avoided: death and his abandoned wife Verena. The sherry kept them away.
The sun was going down behind him when he saw the stranger. Barrel-chest, erect posture,
strong arms and legs covered with curly hair, a round white beard. Like Santa Claus, or like
Ernest Hemingway the year he shot himself.
“Hello, Cobb,” the man said. He wore sungoggles and looked amused. His shorts and sportshirt
glittered.
“Care for a drink?” Cobb gestured at the half-empty bottle. He wondered who, if anyone, he
was talking to.
“No thanks,” the stranger said, sitting down. “It doesn‟t do anything for me.”
Cobb stared at the man. Something about him . . .
“You‟re wondering who I am,” the stranger said, smiling. “I‟m you.”
“You who?”
“You me.” The stranger used Cobb‟s own tight little smile on him. “I‟m a mechanical copy of
your body.”
The face seemed right and there was even the scar from the heart transplant. The only
difference between them was how alert and healthy the copy looked. Call him Cobb Anderson 2.
Cobb2 didn‟t drink. Cobb envied him. He hadn‟t had a completely sober day since he had the
operation and left his wife.
“How did you get here?”
The robot waved a hand palm up. Cobb liked the way the gesture looked on someone else. “I
can‟t tell you,” the machine said. “You know how most people feel about us.”
Rudy Rucker
Cobb chuckled his agreement. He should know. At first the public had been delighted that
Cobb‟s moon-robots had evolved into intelligent boppers. That had been before Ralph
Numbers had led the 2001 revolt. After the revolt, Cobb had been tried for treason. He focused
back on the present.
“If you‟re a bopper, then how can you be . . . here?” Cobb waved his hand in a vague circle,
taking in the hot sand and the setting sun. “It‟s too hot. All the boppers I know of are based on
supercooled circuits. Do you have a refrigeration unit hidden in your stomach?”
Anderson2 made another familiar hand-gesture. “I‟m not going to tell you yet, Cobb. Later
you‟ll find out. Just take this . . . ” The robot fumbled in its pocket and brought out a wad of
bills. “Twenty-five grand. We want you to get the flight to Disky tomorrow. Ralph Numbers will
be your contact up there. He‟ll meet you at the Anderson room in the museum.”
Cobb‟s heart leapt at the thought of seeing Ralph Numbers again. Ralph, his first and finest
model, the one who had set all the others free. But . . .
“I can‟t get a visa,” Cob said. “You know that. I‟m not allowed to leave the Gimmie territory.”
“Let us worry about that,” the robot said urgently. “There‟ll be someone to help you through the
formalities. We‟re working on it right now. And I‟ll stand in for you while you‟re gone. No one‟ll
be the wiser.”
The intensity of his double‟s tone made Cobb suspicious. He took a drink of sherry and tried to
look shrewd. “What‟s the point of all this? Why should I want to go to the Moon in the first
place? And why do the boppers want me there?”
Anderson2 glanced around the empty beach and leaned close. “We want to make you immortal,
Dr. Anderson. After all you did for us, it‟s the least we can do.”
Immortal! The word was like a window flung open. With death so close nothing had mattered.
But if there was a way out . . .
“How?” Cobb demanded. In his excitement he rose to his feet. “How will you do it? Will you
make me young again, too?”
“Take it easy,” the robot said, also rising. “Don‟t get over-excited. Just trust us. With our
supplies of tank-grown organs we can rebuild you from the ground up. And you‟ll get as much
interferon as you need.”
The Ware Tetralogy: Software
The machine stared into Cobb‟s eyes, looking honest. Staring back, Cobb noticed that they
hadn‟t gotten the irises quite right. The little ring of blue was too flat and even. The eyes were,
after all, just plastic, unreadable plastic.
The double pressed the money into Cobb‟s hand. “Take the money and get the shuttle
tomorrow. We‟ll arrange for a young man called Sta-Hi to help you at the spaceport.”
Music was playing, wheedling closer. A Mr. Frostee truck, the same one Cobb had seen before.
It was white, with a big freezer-box in back. There was a smiling giant plastic ice-cream cone
mounted on top of the cab. Cobb‟s double gave him a pat on the shoulder and trotted up the
beach.
When he reached the truck, the robot looked back and flashed a smile. Yellow teeth in the
white beard. For the first time in years, Cobb loved himself, the erect strut, the frightened eyes.
“Good-bye,” he shouted, waving the money. “And thanks!”
Cobb Anderson2 jumped into the soft-ice-cream truck next to the driver, a fat short-haired man
with no shirt. And then the Mr. Frostee truck drove off, its music silenced again. It was dusk
now. The sound of the truck‟s motor faded into the ocean‟s roar. If only it was true.
But it had to be! Cobb was holding twenty-five thousand-dollar bills. He counted them twice to
make sure. And then he scrawled the figure $25000 in the sand and looked at it. That was a lot.
As the darkness fell he finished the sherry and, on a sudden impulse, put the money in the
bottle and buried it next to his tree in a meter of sand. The excitement was wearing off now,
and fear was setting in. Could the boppers really give him immortality with surgery and
interferon?
It seemed unlikely. A trick. But why would the boppers lie to him? Surely they remembered all
the good things he‟d done for them. Maybe they just wanted to show him a good time. God
knows he could use it. And it would be great to see Ralph Numbers again.
Walking home along the beach, Cobb stopped several times, tempted to go back and dig up that
bottle to see if the money was really there. The moon was up, and he could see the little sand-
colored crabs moving out of their holes. They could shred those bills right up, he thought,
stopping again.
Hunger growled in his stomach. And he wanted more sherry. He walked a little further down
the silvery beach, the sand squeaking under his heavy heels. It was bright as day, only all black-
Rudy Rucker
and-white. The full moon had risen over the land to his right. Full moon means high tide, he
fretted.
He decided that as soon as he‟d had a bite to eat he‟d get more sherry and move the money to
higher ground.
Coming up on his moon-silvered cottage from the beach he spotted Annie Cushing‟s leg
sticking past the corner of her cottage. She was sitting on her front steps, waiting to snag him
in the driveway. He angled to the right and came up on his house from behind, staying out of
her line of vision.

Perverso o los extremos de la seducción

Perverso o los extremos de la seducción

Miércoles 5 de septiembre de 2012
Perverso o los extremos de la seducción
Javier Aranda Luna

Ahora que nos invade la marea de la crónica roja y la novela de sangre, justificada por lo demás por el gran fracaso de la guerra contra el crimen organizado, refresca el ambiente de las novedades literarias Perverso, de Patricia Plaza.
No había leído nada de esta escritora española radicada en Houston que terminó trabajando para la FBI. Tampoco era mucho: Mosaico de una despedida, su primer libro, fue publicado en 2001 y ahora resulta prácticamente inconseguible.
Cuando uno se encuentra con autores que no conoce, siempre resulta efectivo aplicar la técnica que Fernando Benítez me regaló para detectar si un libro fue escrito para nosotros: basta abrirlo en cualquier página. Si el texto nos atrapa tiene sentido leerlo. De lo contrario lo recomendable es olvidarnos, por el momento, de él. No es un pecado dejar en un estante incluso a un clásico; simplemente no fue escrito para nosotros en ese momento.
Quizá la técnica de Benítez también resulte para algunos un poco injusta porque todo libro tiene sus altas y sus bajas: existen buenos textos con alguna página ripiosa, mientras que otros sólo podrían justificar su peso por la página que el azar nos brindó cuando decidimos abrirlo… y eso no es poca cosa. En literatura no es un error reducir el todo por la parte: la parte es el todo aunque se encuentre perdida entre cientos de páginas.
Las buenas novelas nos revelan un mundo, las mejores nos emocionan. La prosa imantada de Patricia Plaza en Perverso, es emocionante: su centro es la seducción, la intimidad perturbada.
Patricia Plaza recupera en Perverso, al género epistolar. Un recurso que utilizó Dostoyevski en Pobres gentes con gran eficacia.
Todo intercambio epistolar nos muestra desde su inicio la coincidencia de dos mundos. Es un diálogo diferido, una conversación donde el silencio o el tiempo de espera nos dicen más que mil palabras. Quien escribe una carta no sólo piensa en el otro: piensa al otro, le da peso y forma, volumen, existencia mientras lo escucha en silencio. El decir y el no decir en una correspondencia es un hacer.
Federico Sánchez Mondragón, un famoso escritor setentón y Piropo, una joven redactora son los protagonistas de Perverso. Ambos se valen de la escritura como una efectiva forma de seducción. Sus diálogos silenciosos elevan la temperatura de la novela al jugar cada vez más con un lenguaje intimista que termina por desnudarlos.
Y ya separados de la retórica, expuestos el uno al otro por voluntad propia, deciden desdoblarse en dos personajes que han inscrito sus nombres en los anales de la eternidad que sólo otorgan los lectores: Henry Miller y Anaïs Nin, dos símbolos de la historia erótica de todos los tiempos.
Pero lejos de que Piropo se asuma como Anaïs, es el viejo verde quien decide travestirse y hacerse pasar por la ardiente escritora. Piropo, mientras tanto, juega a jugar el rol del viril autor de Trópico de cáncer.
Federico Sánchez Mondragón y Piropo no son perversos por su gran diferencia de edades, ni por ponerle cuernos a sus respectivas parejas sino por subvertir el rol de la pareja que hacen un hombre y una mujer.
Con una prosa ligera sin resultar banal y con múltiples guiños literarios sin pedantería Perverso también ofrece al lector una serie de agudas reflexiones sobre las vulgaridades de la sociedad española y sobre los absurdos y contradicciones que atraen y causan repulsa de la sociedad estadunidense.
En estos días de penuria por la guerra idiota contra el narco, Perverso aligera el ambiente por desviar nuestras miradas al arte de la seducción, al juego del encantamiento por el poder de la prosa, a la perversidad de un erotismo que puede convertirse en farsa, en teatro del absurdo, en esa comedia que muchas veces no vemos porque la tenemos enfrente.

Perverso, una novela permeada de erotismo
Publicado el 03 diciembre 2012 por Erasmo
Bienvenidos al Sitio Web http://www.informanet1.com Director General: Erasmo Martínez Cano… Comentarios y sugerencias: Editor: Erasmo Martínez / Javier Tlatoa ( portal@informanet1.com ) ( erasmocano@gmail.com ) Informanet Videos

Guadalajara, Jalisco. En el marco del evento anual de la Feria Internacional del Libro (FIL) 2012, debo de confesar que mientras hacía antesala en la Editorial Planeta para entrevistar a la atractiva Patricia Plaza, autora de PERVERSO, al leer un capítulo tuve una tremenda erección por la fina agilidad de su pluma. Incluso, le confesé que si en ese momento me hubiera llamado para entrevistarla, hubiese inclinado mi cabeza hacia adelante y mi cintura hacia atrás para disimular la erguides de mi miembro viril, quien ya tenía tintes de estar lubricado, listo para penetrar en todas las posiciones posibles a Piropo, la protagonista principal de su novela.Momentos después, al estar a su lado, me di cuenta que toda ella,emana sensualidad, erotismo, lujuria y perversidad.El título del libro, más que perverso es transgresor. La palabra perverso, muchas personas lo relacionan con algo negativo, sucio, o algo definitivamente prohibido, pero es un texto del que nadie se debe de avergonzar, pues sería avergonzarse de todas las cosas que nos hacen sentir humanos, ya queel deseo es humano y el gozar también es de humanos.
Patricia, emana sensualidad, erotismo, lujuria y perversidadPiropo, una joven redactora quien vive en Estados Unidos, y Federico Sánchez Mondragón, un famoso escritor y presentador de televisión en España quien le dobla la edad, comienzan un ardiente e ingenioso coqueteo epistolar, y que poco a poco la correspondencia se va poniendo caliente, caliente y va subiendo de tono: dos años más tarde deciden encontrarse en Madrid, donde descubren que todo cuanto se han dicho por carta merece ser desnudado y saboreado, y que ellos y los personajes virtuales que han creado en esa adictiva correspondencia son lo mismo: el anverso y reverso de sus deseos más perversos. Cómplices y aliados en un juego seductor y a la vez peligroso, deciden firmar con tinta blanca un pacto secreto que los lleva a Bali, donde finalmente se transmutan en Anais y Henry, una pareja que revela al lector los secretos más inquietantes de su intimidad hasta descubrirse vulnerables, pero sobre todo, libres.“Yo sí creo en el amor-refiere con una sonrisa muy contagiosa-, en el cariño, en el expresar; la vida es muy corta, yo estuve al borde de la muerte una vez y este libro me liberó de muchas cosas como los miedos y de atreverme a dar un abrazo cariñoso (como el que me dio y me besó en ambas mejillas como si nos conociéramos de mucho tiempo) y sentir tu energía en muy buena honda y compartir un momento agradable, ¿qué hay de malo expresarlo? Creo mucho en tocar, pues es una parte de una colección: somos todo piel, toda energía; eso se siente y se puede pasar de uno a otro, y eso abre muchas puertas que no se esperaban.”
Lectura erótica-estimulante“Es muy fácil escribir en Internet-añade Patricia-con undelicioso matizde sensualidad, por está razón cuando Piropo y Federico llegan a Bali, deciden quitarse y ponerse otras máscaras y recurren a Anais y Henry, dos grandes de la literatura erótica contemporánea, y entonces Piropo se convierte en Henry, y éste en Anais. A partir de ahí exploran todos los tabúes, esos rincones escondidos, todos esos lugares, que a veces nadie quiere explorar, y lo dicen, lo cuentan y lo hacen todo. A través del libro exploro la muerte, la pena de muerte, la vejez, una serie de cosas que quiero que a cualquier persona de cualquier edad, en algún momento haya tenido que encarar estos temas, se identifique. También comparo mucho la cultura americana con la española; y ahí sí que parto de una forma muy personal, soy española, voy a Estados Unidos y, cómo la protagonista en ese sentido me siento muy compenetrada con ella porque sí tuve que redescubrir a mi propio país después de mucho tiempo.“Si alguien lee mi libro en la FIL y tiene una erección (como al que escribe estas líneas), me parece muy de humanos. Espero que esto ocurra, si no ocurre, mi libro no cumplió su cometido. La cosa es que las personas se liberen al leerlo, se abran de piernas, y de mente, ya que la libertad se siente, se piensa, y se hace.” También la escritora brinda un tributo a Henry Miller, que le encanta y a Sigmund Freud, donde cada vez que se viola un tabú sucede algo estimulante y sucede un cambio, y cuando hay un cambio hay creación. “Considero que al escribir este libro violé muchos tabúes y salió un perverso:el libro.”
La petitemortEl libro es muy visual, por lo tanto, a la escritora le encanta que lo pueda leer una pareja, o si ya lo es que contribuya a hacerla más excitante. Según la hermosa escritora, “el libro requiere más que escritores, a nudistas, a gente que requiera a abrirse más de piernas, de mentes y explorar todas esas cosas que nos dan miedo; escribirlo representa para mí, explorar esos mismos lugares. De hecho, explorar hasta la psicología masculina porque al escribir tengo que escribir como un hombre, y la verdad, es que yo pienso que todos tenemos dentro de uno mismo un lado masculino uno femenino.” En una de sus páginas, Patricia Plaza,escribe que Piropo muere en el acto sexual y resucita en un orgasmo, es decir, alcanza el orgasmo pierde la consciencia durante unos segundos. Es lo que se conoce como petitemort o pequeña muerte. “Yo pienso que eso se lleva a muchas cosas en la vida: a veces también puedes morir y renacer en una mirada o en una sonrisa.”Por otra parte, Patricia Plaza comenta que su libro no está basado en su trabajo (FBI), es ficción (hasta cierto punto), es un libro que a ella le da esperanza de que la gente, de cualquier edad, se abra, y que esté dispuesto a emprender este viaje con los protagonistas y a liberarse. En este libro, Patricia escribe de muchas cosas: las nalgas, ir al baño, de muchas sucesos que forman la vida, que todos la compartimos porque todos los seres humanos somos iguales, pero que a mucha gente le da miedo contar, y las escribe con un poco de humor para que el lector no se espante, pero a la vez, con mucha honestidad. Por ejemplo, en México la palabra culo no es nada aceptada, sin embargo, en España es muy común: allá al coche le das de culo, aquí decimos échate para atrás.
Dulce sabor ha prohibidoPatricia Plaza, confiesa que es voyerista o una mirona, siempre ve la vida como si fuera un ojo de buey, siempre ve una puerta mirando, y piensa que el libro es eso, quienes decidan abrir estas páginas se van a convertir en voyeristas o mirones de lo que les sucede a los protagonistas, y mirones de sí mismos porque van a decir “esto me encantaría hacerlo”, y van a plantear a su pareja, y planteárselo es ser libre, además, se van a identificar con los personajes; hay gente que ni siquiera se atreve a plantearse nada, porque quizá, para ella es muy fuerte, muy retadora o muy provocadora. “Quiero encender los buenos y malos sentidos-subraya Patricia-y encenderte no solamente a  nivel de excitar físicamente sino también mentalmente; y en el sexo, que el lector se diga ‘por qué no. esto no me lo había planteado, pero se me está antojando.’ “Si las mujeres nos fijáramos más en lo que les gusta a los hombres, nos volveríamos más perversas y mejores amantes, es decir, no estoy inventando la pólvora, esto es lo que yo veo cuando un hombre goza. Entonces, por un momento, tengo que ponerme en la piel de ese hombre o ponerme en mi propia piel y decirme: ‘esto es lo que yo veo desde mi punto de vista, si yo soy un hombre: esto es o que me gusta y es lo que le gusta a todos los hombres, con variaciones por aquí y por allá.’Algunas personas le han dicho que han leído el libro cosas que se le han antojado, pero sus respectivas parejas no quieren. El chiste de esto está en la complicidad. “Obsequiar esta Navidad-puntualiza-, PERVERSO, es un preludio de un acto sexual lleno de erotismo y orgasmos navideños y posnavideños.”
Perversamente dedicado a Patricia PlazaA propósito de literatura epistolar, el libro PERVERSO, me recuerda a una carta llena de erotismo, que escribió Miguel Delibes, y a quien dedico a Patricia Plaza, la mujer más sensual, erótica y deliciosamente perversa que he conocido: Patricia Plaza, a quien quiero verla de nuevo y disfrutar de su amena plática. “Tu imagen me persigue las veinticuatro horas del día. Me levanto con tu fotografía entre los dedos y me duermo (es un decir) contemplándola. Ahora me obsesionan las zonas difusas de tu cuerpo: el hoyuelo donde tu garganta concluye, las axilas, el tibio triángulo que divide tus pechos. A veces te acaricio con los ojos con tal insistencia que llego a percibir una sensación táctil. Entonces se hacen notorios los más insignificantes accidentes de tu piel: los poros, el breve y brillante vello rubio, partículas infinitesimales de salitre. A la noche, claro está, me asaltan suelos libidinosos. ¡Ese tirante mínimo que rodea tu cuello! Anoche en mi duermevela, lo desataba morosa y amorosamente en un juego erótico elemental. ¡Qué turbación, mi amor! ¿Es posible, criatura, que uno pueda despertar al erotismo a los 65 años? ¿Qué extraño bebedizo me has dado para encender en mi pecho estos deseos adolescentes?”
Por: Héctor Medina Varalta

ROBET GORBER, vulture Art´Rew. 9/30/2014 at 4:00 PM

Art Review: The Great, Inscrutable Robert Gober

Compared to good art, “great art is much harder to talk about,” the sculptor Charles Ray has said, speaking of the phantasmagoric work of Robert Gober, the subject of a 40-year retrospective survey at MoMA, called “The Heart Is Not a Metaphor.”  “If you were to ask me what his artwork talks about I would not be able to tell you. But this doesn’t mean it is not speaking … What I do understand … is that I want to see it again. It asks me to be near. To come closer and look longer or to come back tomorrow and look again. The work whispers ‘Be with me.’”

The melancholy narratives of Gober’s work have gripped and bewildered me for 30 years. Imagine Proust just presenting a sculpture of a half-eaten madeleine or drawings of only the three windows through which he watched illicit homosexual encounters. The novelist and critic Jim Lewis, a longtime close reader of Gober’s work, is now writing a catalogue essay about him. In it, he admits, “I don’t understand Robert Gober’s work.” He notes that most of this artist’s commentators have recorded the same reaction, as well. I’m one of them. And that’s how I know how good the work is.

The first pieces we encounter inside Gober’s stunning new MoMA survey will likely whisk viewers to this never-understand land, as well. There’s a recessed closet with no door, a tiny intaglio print of an anonymous cat-sitter ad, and on the floor jutting from the wall — as if crushed by Dorothy’s house crashing down into some eerie Oz — a man’s severed leg with pants cuff, hairy shin, and old shoe.

The whole show conjures a house possessed, stripped-down, roughed-up — Gober’s inner home, ours, America’s. The second gallery zeroes in on a mad family of contorted sculptures of sinks. All evoke inanimate beings, anomalous anatomies, secret selves, hybrid bodies in pain, absence, emotional masks donned and removed. Made in 1984, these are the works that put Gober on the map — albeit off to one side. Famous but never as white-hot as Jeff Koons, Gober has always been viewed by the art world as some sort of “good object,” while Koons is seen as the “bad object.” This even though the two are pretty similar: about the same age, from working-class northeastern families, obsessed with sex, religion, history, freakish levels of craft, hygiene, and cleanliness (Gober with sinks, Koons with vacuum cleaners). Gober’s sinks, fashioned from plaster, wood, wire lath, and coated in layers of bland semi-gloss enamel, slung low, are exoskeleton ghost sculptures, dysfunctional with no running plumbing. All holes and bowls, some look like mouths and feel more like urinals or creatures with needs — clunky, funny, wanting, bizarre. Gober has said, “What do you do when you stand in front of sink? You clean yourself … (these sinks are) about the inability to (do that).”

As you proceed deeper into this apparitional house, be forewarned. The repeated paleness of his palette, the hermeticism, almost empty rooms, and surrealism can make Gober’s art turn wan, monotonous, joyless. In the next gallery two crooked playpens might mangle any kid’s internal compass but the work is optically inert, emotionally obvious. Gober does ambiguity better. Way better. Which brings us to something of a skeleton key to Gober’s work. A plain piece of plywood, made in 1987, leans against a wall. That’s it. Look closely at the surfaces, edges, and materials. Crafted carefully from laminated fir and particle board, this is a work cloaked, camouflaged, passing as a piece of plywood passing as sculpture passing as art, blending in, acting one way whilebeing another. It is a sculpture in drag.

A work from 1979–1980, made when Gober was 25, a large dollhouse, is a near-perfect hand-rendered re-creation of a typical working-class American home. It is the kind of house you might pass on a shortcut on your way to school and think about how comparatively normal life inside it must be. In this exhibition, the work is shown with its sides closed, and therefore hidden, but in other shows they’ve been thrown open, exposing what’s within to all. Inside, the house looks abandoned, and the walls are covered with painted scenes of roads, landscapes, shapes of the states. Alarm bells sound. These are images of longing, loneliness, dreaming of other places, getting out, getting away. That empty closet, severed leg, and disembodied sinks all transform into Whitman’s “phantoms curiously floating.” This is someone’s prolapsing life.

Nearby, another empty doorway — and a work one of Gober’s best critics — curator Richard Flood referred to as “a curious bag of groceries.” A hermaphroditic torso with one male and one female breast. Human hair has been tweezed in. It’s as maniacally made as a Jeff Koons sculpture. Lumped on the floor and leaning against the wall like a sack of gravel, this is a body in conflict, psychic boundaries bulging, contested, cursed, alive with possibilities. By this point in the show, you’ve seen all sorts of hyper-realistic attenuated body parts jutting from walls, in corners, on the floor: A pair of man’s legs with drains, another’s sprouts candles, another’s has sheet music embedded on his naked posterior. A large cement crucifix spouts a stream of water from Christ’s nipples into a jackhammered hole in the museum floor. Tears, nourishment, violence, and sex mingle in this image of sacrifice and violent death. There is an empty wedding dress in a room wallpapered with repeating images of a sleeping white man and a hanged black man.  It sends chills. As does as a truncated naked female torso giving birth to a grown man’s leg with shoe and pants, foot-first. When this untitled 1993 work was first shown I remember many being outraged at perceived misogyny, hatred. Gober’s own mother said “Bobby, why would you want to make something like this?” Maybe it just says we’re born this way. Either way many of these works still make the hair on the back of my neck stand up. As always with Gober, the important thing is not what the work says, or what it’s about, but what it does to you — what it brings up in you.

But where does it come from, this strange grotesque netherworld that is both horrifying and unshakably personal, intimate, familiar? Gober’s art comes from many places and can’t be reduced to identity politics, sex, religion, race, or psychology. Yet it helps to look at a context that helped forge this art. In 1981, the New York Times published a one column article titled “Rare Cancer Seen in 41 Homosexuals. Outbreak Occurs Among Men in New York and California.” AIDS had come into the land. Rather than the U.S. mobilizing and the sick being succored by family, religion, and government, gay men were shunned, left to fend for themselves and die in public. By the time President Ronald Reagan finally said the word AIDs in over 21,000 American citizens had succumbed to the disease. It’s hard to conjure what New York looked like then, what a ride on the subway was like. Emaciated, marked, scared men everywhere. People afraid, contemptuous of one another. Hate crimes were being directed against gay men and women; sodomy was declared a punishable offense. Gober’s and our home had turned into a house of death. Gober said, “I was a gay man living in the epicenter of 20th century America’s worst health epidemic.” He later wrote that “it is primarily gay men … who have organized themselves to care for their own when their families and their government recoiled in bewilderment and fear… should gay men succeed in moving through the discrimination … their achievement will be remarkable.” As surreal and beyond one’s grasp as his art might seem, this is what the world was actually like then.

One of the last pieces in the show offers such sweet sustenance and hope. A simple potato print of the words of Rodgers & Hammerstein’s 1959 Climb Every Mountain, I found myself humming this song as I absorbed all the sorrow and lost souls evoked here. It’s pure schmaltz, maybe. But that’s a part of what we’re made of — gushing inexplicable feelings. And even when these feelings come from show tunes they can add up to sublimities. Gober’s work exhorts, annoys, lulls, lets boredom slip in. Yet it almost always radiates a disquieting radical strangeness and in its weird way heals. He is one of the best American artists of the last 30 years. This impressive exhibition more than does him justice.

GET MORE: SEEING OUT LOUD, ROBERT GOBER, MOMA, ART, SCULPTURE, JEFF KOONS