Tuesday, July 22, 2008

All About Cervical Mucus

A table is a table

A table is a table
Peter Bichsel
(versión libre en español por Gabriela Brown)

contarles Love a Man About Town, About a Man old word that this might not told more. It has a tired expression: Too much for sonreír tired and tired to Demasiado be angry. He lives in a small town at the end of a street or near a corner. Not worth describing, hardly something you apart from others. Use a gray hat, gray pants, a gray jacket, winter-long gray overcoat. His neck is thin, loose skin and wrinkles. The white buttons of the shirt neck are too tight. Your room is on the first floor of the house. Maybe he was married and had children. Maybe he lived before in another city. No doubt, once was a boy, but that happened at a time when the kids are dressed like the adults, as seen in photographs of grandmothers. In his room there are two chairs, a table, a carpet, a bed and a wardrobe. Top of a table is an alarm clock, next, old newspapers and a photo album. On the wall hung a mirror and a portrait.

The old man took a walk in the morning and a walk in the evenings. Exchanged a few words with his neighbor and at night he sat at the table.

That did not change. Sunday was also true. And when he sat at the table heard the clock ticking. Whenever the clock ticking.

But there was a day that was different. A sunny day, not too cool, not warm, with songs of birds, happy people, with children playing. Suddenly the man realized all those things, and that was different.


"Now everything will change," he thought. He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt collar, grabbed his hat with his hand, quickened his pace, swung on his knees when walking and was happy. He reached the street where he lived, greeted the boys bowed his head and went to his house, climbed the stairs, took his keys from his pocket and opened his room.

But in the room all was just a table, two chairs, a bed. When he sat down he heard the ticking again and all his joy was gone, because nothing had changed. The man was furious. Very angry. He saw in the mirror how to redden their expression, how he squeezed his eyes shut ... and then closed the hands in two fists, lifted them and hit the surface of the table with them. First a hit, then another ... And then began pounding the table like a drum, shouting over and over again:

"Something has to change!" And I did not hear over the alarm clock. After his hands began to ache. Voice failed him. Heard the alarm clock again, and nothing had changed.

"Always the same table," said the man, "the same chairs, bed, portrait. And at the table say table I tell her portrait to portrait, to bed the bed and called the name chairs chairs But why? The French tells the bed "li", at the table "Table", the portrait is called "table" and chairs "cheis." And among them are understood. And the Chinese also understood. Why not call the bed portrait? "Thought the man and smiled. Then he laughed. Both laughed that the neighbor had to hit the wall and shouting "Silence!".

"Now something has changed," he said. And from then to bed called "Portrait."

"I am tired, want to get in the picture, "he said. And in the morning, as always, stood for a long time lying in the picture, deciding how you would like to say from then on to the chair. And the chair called "alarm clock." Suddenly I dreamed about this new language. Translated into their language the songs of the time he went to school and sang softly to himself.

finally stood up, got dressed, sat on the alarm clock and rested his arms on the table. But now the table and table name was not over, now called carpet. In the morning the man came out of the picture, dressed, sat on the carpet on the clock and began to think how I could call each other things.

A bed called portrait.
A table called carpet. The chair
called clock. The newspaper called
chair called the mirror.
The alarm clock called photo album.
newspaper called Al wardrobe.
called to the carpet wardrobe. The portrait called
And the photo album called mirror.

So ...

the morning, the old man was a long time lying in the portrait. At nine rang the photo album. He rose and stood above the closet so they do not get cold feet. Then grabbed the clothes in the newspaper, got dressed and looked in the chair on the wall. Finally, he sat on the carpet on the clock and looked through the mirror until he found his mother's table.

Man amused, practiced all day and memorized the words. Today everything has a different name. He was no longer a man but a foot. And the walk was a morning and evening a man.

Now you can write the story again. And then you can exchange other words, as did the man. Sonar

means stop. Chill
means to see. Reclining
means sound. Standing
means to feel cold. Stand
means browsing.

And then it would read: For the man, the old foot was a long time playing in the portrait. At nine o'clock they stopped the photo album. The foot felt cold and looked through the closet to avoid being in the morning.

The old man bought a blue-covered notebook and wrote on it until it is filled with new words. And to do that it took so long that only very rarely could see down the street. Then he learned the new names for everything and forgot more and more of the original terms. I now had a new language, it was all to himself. But soon he also felt it was difficult to translate, which quickly forgot their old language. Had to find the original words in his blue-covered notebook and it made me feel afraid to talk to people. I had to think too long to remember how they said other things. In his portrait

people say bed. Your carpet
people tell
In table clock tells people
A chair bed everyday people tell you to your chair
A mirror tells her photo album tells people alarm clock. Your daily
people say wardrobe. Your wardrobe
people say carpet. In
mirror tells people photo album. Your table
people tell portrait.

And there came a time when man could not help laughing when I heard people talking. It is tempting to hear someone say "Are you also going to go tomorrow to the soccer game", or if someone said "It rains almost like two months", or if someone said "I have an uncle in America."

And tempted because I did not understand.

But this is not a success story. It started off as sad and has a sad ending. The gray overcoat old man could not understand most people but that was not so serious.

The worst was that others could not understand him. And why not say any word.

He remained silent, spoke only to himself. And one day he stopped to say hello.
Ein Tisch ist ein Tisch
Peter Bichsel

Ich will von einem alten Mann erzählen, von einem Mann, der kein Wort sagt mehr, hat ein Gesicht're moving, Lächeln und zu zum zu mud mud , um böse zu sein. Wohnt er in einer kleinen City, at the end of the road or near the intersection. It is worth almost not describe him, hardly distinguishes him from others. He wears a gray hat, gray pants, a gray coat and winter long, gray coat, and he has a thin neck, the skin dry and wrinkled, the white shirt collar to him much too far. On the top floor of the house he has his own room, maybe he was married and had children. Maybe he used to live in another city. Certainly he was once a child, but that was at a time when the children were dressed like adults. Man she looks like in the photo album of the grandmother. In his room are two chairs, a table, a rug, a bed and a cupboard. On a small table, a clock, besides there are old newspapers and photo album on the wall hang a mirror and a picture.

The old man took a walk in the morning and afternoon for a walk, a few words with his neighbor, and at night he sat at his table. The

never changed, even on Sundays this was so. And if the man was sitting at the table, he heard the clock ticking, the alarm clock always ticking.

Then one day there was a special day, a day of sun, not too hot, not too cold, with twittering of birds, with friendly people, with children playing - and the special was that all of a sudden the man liked. He


"Now this will change everything," he thought. He opened his top shirt button, took his hat in his hand, accelerated its course, rocked even when walking in the knees and was glad. He came to his street, nodded to the children, went to his house, climbed the stairs, took the keys from his pocket and opened his room.

But the room was all the same, one table, two chairs, a bed. And as he sat down view, he heard the ticking, and all the joy was over, because nothing had changed. And the man was overcome with a great rage. He looked in the mirror his face red start, saw him zukniff eyes, and clenched his hands to fists, lifted her, and beat them on the table, only just one stroke, then another, and then he began to drum on the table and screamed this over and over:

"It has to change something." And he did not hear the alarm clock. Then his hands began to ache, his voice broke, he heard the alarm clock again, and nothing changed.

"Always the same table," said the man, the same chairs, the bed, the picture. And the table I say table, the picture I say image, the bed is bed, and the chair is called a chair. Why not indeed ? The French say the bed "li", the table "table", name the picture "tablo" and the chair "Shepherd" and they understand each other. And the Chinese are too. "Why is not the bed picture," said the man and smiled, then laughed and laughed, until the neighbors knocked on the wall and "rest," cried.

"Now it is changing," he cried, and he said from now on the bed "picture".

"I'm tired, I want the picture," he said, and in the morning he would often lie long in the picture and wondered how he wanted to say to the chair, and he named the chair "alarm clock". Now and then he dreamed in the new language, and then he translated the songs from his school days in his language, and he sang softly to himself.

So he got up, pulled in, sat down on the alarm clock, leaning his arms on the table. But the table was no longer table, he was now called carpet. In the morning, so the man left the picture, dressed sat down at the carpet at the clock, wondering who he might say.

to the bed he said image.
to the table he said carpet.
to the chair he said alarm clock. The newspaper said he
the mirror he said chair.
The clock said photo album.
The cabinet said newspaper.
the carpet, he told cabinet. The picture he said
And the photo album he said Spiegel.

So: In the morning the old man remained for a long lie in the image, the bell rang at nine photo album The man got up and stood on the cabinet to prevent it was cold to the feet, then took his clothes from the newspaper, put on, looked into the chair on the wall, then sat down at the clock on the carpet, and leafed through the mirror until he found the table of his mother.

The guy found it funny, and he practiced all day and coined a new word. Now everything was changed: He was now no longer a man, but a walk, and walk one morning and the morning a man was

Now you can continue writing the story itself. And then you can, as it was the man to replace the other words:

ring is place,
look is cold,
lie is ringing,
want is cold, scroll means asking

So that it then reads the old man on foot was long ringing in the picture, the photo album at nine, presented on the foot was cold and the leaves out of the closet, so he did not look in the morning.

The old man bought a blue exercise books and wrote them fully with the new words, and he had much to do with it, and he was seen only rarely on the road. Then he learned the new names for all things, forgetting more and more the right. He now had a new language that belonged to him alone. But soon he also found it difficult to translate, he had forgotten his old language almost, and he had to find the right words in his blue books. And he was afraid to talk to people. He had a long think about how people say things.

His image tell people bed. His people say
carpet table. His alarm clock
people say chair. His bed
people say newspaper. His chair
people say mirror. His photo album
people say alarm.
His newspaper people say cabinet. His cabinet
people say carpet. His mirror
people say photo album.
his table tell the people image.

And it came to such a that the man had to laugh when he heard people talk.

He had to laugh when he heard someone say, "Go tomorrow to the football game?" Or if someone said, "Now it's raining just two months." Or if someone said. "I had an uncle in America."

He had to laugh because he does not understand all this.

But a funny story is not. She started listening to sad and sad. The old man in a gray jacket could not understand the people that was not so bad.

was much worse, they could no longer understand it. And so he said nothing more.

He said nothing, only with itself, not even greeted.


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