El pais semanal psicologia no tengo tiempo

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Why a soda can? «Because it is the lightest and at the same time the most resistant container, they often continue to capture images even if someone has ripped or thrown them away; they have thin walls, but they are strong, they are not heavy, they are sensitive, they are waterproof, they are light-tight, they are… perfect,» argues Diego López Calvín.

And so it is. The jam, handmade like few others, is made by the inventor of Time in a can when he returns to his headquarters, Estudio Redondo, on the seventh floor of Madrid’s Gran Vía, a platform where a group of associated photographers are dedicated to audiovisual projects with which they earn a living and enjoy life, which, everyone will agree, is not so common nowadays. In short, they may shoot a commercial for a bank or go out and sow the world with latacameras. Technically speaking, the method is simple: Diego and his team take the photosensitive paper out of the can, check that the image has been fixed, place it on a table and scan it. In doing so, they obtain a reliable, durable and manipulable image using image processing software.

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There, cultivation organizes the work and holiday calendar. The main one is the harvest and the most sacred day, the day of rest. The slope of the land has protected this place for centuries. It was the first landscape to be declared a world heritage site by Unesco in 1995 and, paradoxically, it has been endangered by the nearly 100,000 travelers who, until now, have visited it annually.

Watson explains that the Ma’dans are very hospitable and during Saddam Hussein’s presidency many refugees arrived there persecuted by the regime, which dried up the wetlands and forced them to emigrate. It was 1991. The population dropped by 70%. In 2006, the Iraqi government, with the help of the UN, managed to recover 58% of the wetlands. It was then that the current 10,000 inhabitants returned. A decade later, the enclave was declared a World Heritage Site.

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SOMEONE MUST HAVE said -and if they didn’t say it, they thought it- that there is no real change if the language doesn’t change. Or that there is no real change if the language does not change. And it’s true that not many changes create new ways of saying. These, yes.

Argentines tend to be extreme -and even more so when it comes to speaking. I know, but even so, these days in Buenos Aires I was surprised by the diffusion of what the most current language has come to call «inclusive language». The name assumes, needless to say, that other languages are not. And this idea is the basis for its diffusion.

For example, a young student leader said in a TV report about the parliamentary discussion on abortion -and many use it all the time. It is true that it is a limited sector: urban kids, under 25, middle class, leaning towards the left or some form of modernity; it is also true that these things always start somewhere, and then continue or not.

This one started the other way around. Languages, in general, were first spoken and then written. This one existed in writing before it was spoken. It was written tod@s or todxs and it was not clear how to say it; now the written word found its oral form: the e as a neutral way.

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That is to say: we live as if we did not have. We live seeing that everything has, pretending that it does not: facing the end -our end- we only know how to pretend that it will not come. Because there is nothing more terrifying than the end, there is nothing we forget so much. But there is also the end we pursue, and the doubt: have we reached the end, or did we not reach it? Did we reach it or did we not reach it?

We never desired an end so much: we never did so much, resigned so much, endured so much to reach it; we never expected an end so much as in all these months in which we lived something we had never lived before. We confined ourselves to flee from the definitive end. The end of so much effort was -we know- the end of the pandemic, and now we pretend it has already arrived. But we do not know: we are not sure. It is cruel not to be sure: to believe that it is, to doubt if it is not. In horror literature there are no more terrifying characters than those who have already come to an end and yet continue: zombies, vampires, the various undead. The pandemic could be one of these: if the living was brutal, the zombie would become tremendous.