Work around

Japan has an Antarctic expedition that spends the first winter in Antarctica. They use transport ships to transport gasoline to the wintering base. Due to insufficient preparation, it was found in the field operation that the length of the oil pipeline was not enough. Gasoline cannot be transported from the transport ship to the wintering base. If it is transported from Japan, it will take nearly two months. How to do? This problem has stumped all the players, and everyone does not know what to do.

When the players were very anxious and at a loss, the captain suddenly proposed a very strange idea. He said: “Let’s use ice to make the pipe.” The most indispensable thing in Antarctica is ice, but how to make the ice into a tube? ? The players think this is incredible and impossible. The captain said again: “Don’t we have a medical bandage? Just wrap it on an existing iron pipe, pour water on it to make it freeze, and then pull out the iron pipe. It will become an ice pipe. Is it?” In this way, the team members made ice pipes with ice according to the method described by the captain, and then connected them one by one, and soon a pipe made of ice passed from the transport ship. Wintering base. The gasoline was smoothly transported to the expedition’s wintering base, and the problem of insufficient oil pipelines was solved. It ensured that the expedition team members can spend the winter safely in Antarctica, and at the same time, the expedition team successfully completed the expedition mission.

Learning to be flexible is a compulsory course for each of us, and it is also a prerequisite for each of us to get happiness and inspiration from life. Adapting to changes, being good at thinking, and learning to deal with problems flexibly from multiple angles are indispensable wisdom in life, and life will be more exciting because of this.

What is the real thing? For the supreme value we place on money, we are inclined to respect it as the most real and positive thing, a bank, for example. However, in Buenos Aires I have lost the respect that the Banks deserved me, like all poor men.

Along with the City Banks, there are a multitude of desks and small offices, of different sizes, of different nationalities. At first I had great respect for those offices, adorned with all the luxury of golden signs, extensive glass, table{164}rivers with figures and quotes, huge iron cabinets. A kind of caves also caused me respect, to whose door I saw many, infinite copper plates nailed with a name or a commercial signature. He looked at the back of those rooms, and discovered there a mysterious something, a kind of heroic efforts in which audacious and patriotic people were engaged. But I have also lost respect for those dens … Now I see them as comic, picturesque places, nests of novelizable adventures.

They are spacious premises, composed of a long patio to which numerous rooms and cabinets converge; the same distribution of autonomous rooms continues on the upper floors. Each cabinet has a number, like the cells of a prison or a hospital; Next to the door, a porcelain or copper plate indicates the owner’s surname. These owners take on the most varied and antagonistic professions. Some are lawyers, other engineers, contractors, land auctioneers, registrars, notaries, commercial agents, representatives of shipping companies,{165}from settlement companies, from insurance companies; other businesses and professions tend to border on the fantastic. Anyone with the purpose of speculating puts his plaque on a cabinet door, plants a table and four chairs, buys a typewriter, and goes to work. What does it operate on? About nothing, about emptiness. It is already an insurance company, and a society of notices, colonization, of anything. In many of these cabinets sit, it is clear, true lawyers, true commission agents and obvious colonization and insurance companies; but those who give character to the thing are the others, the imaginary, the incredible and unheard of.

What’s going to be in there? “I asked myself before.” There are serious men who work and operate on realities; but a crowd operates on shadows and words. Inside there is nothing, or there are things of appearance and illusion. This, for example, has on his table or lying on the couches, samples of a new wire to fence fields; the other presents some ears of wheat sews{166}chadas in a field “that is said to be sold and is a pichincha”; others do not even present that, unless it is a plaque with a name, which is an enigma.

But no desk is missing plans and maps of distant towns and territories. The lands are cut by symmetrical lines, in the form of square plots: they are the lands, the eternal lands that are offered to speculation, the tokens of this great green carpet of the republic where the buying and selling of fantasies is played.

Strange businesses are hatched there. An international gypsy style swarms there, a cosmopolitan picarism, worthy of the pen of a Dickens. No one has a tip or a trace of an idiot there; they are all perfectly lynxes, brought up in the school of wonder. You see an Italian associate with an Andalusian, a Basque with a Russian, an Englishman with a Dalmatian. Some deceive others, trip, in a tournament of cunning. They wait for the unwary and the deluded. They travel on sudden and anonymous journeys, to return with reports and finds collected inland.{167} They spread the web, like spiders, and await their prey.

Amazing reputations are made there. The dry fields, with four skinny steers, become fertile pasture lands. They show samples of grass, or highly developed flax and corn plants. With your finger you go over the maps, made with the flattering science of the technicians who are in the secret of the business; the terrains are measured on the map and their perfections are weighted. The railway must pass through here; an agricultural colony is to be founded there; an irrigation canal will run on that side … And the land is sold, bought, without anyone having seen it. There is no cultivation in them, nor do they yield any income. They are not bought for their essential value, but for the value they are supposed to achieve later. Since everyone has an interest in sustaining the charade, the charade runs its course. See an immense mat,

Such an environment, so overloaded with currency speculation, has had to produce{168}many crazy things. One of the most typical crazy people is the one I call a “project creator.” His madness does not fall within the limits of the madhouse; He is not a clinical madman: he is simply a maniac, like the lover, like the artist. He has the monomania of projects, he has the ideal of fortune, as well as for the lover and for the artist his ideals become a fixed and constant obsession.

The designer wakes up thinking about his colossal businesses, and falls asleep with his dreams of fortune; but fortune does not appear to him in a material form, but in a fantastic and idealistic way. He does not want fortune like practical men, to achieve real things and satisfactions: he wants fortune for fortune itself, he loves the project for the project’s sake. Something similar to Don Quixote, the project creator has imagined a Dulcinea, and because of her beautiful love she lives, dreams, battles, runs, talks.

You will see him anywhere in the city center. It is in the cafes, in the «bars», in the corridors of the theaters. As if your ex{169}Brain citation wasn’t enough, he still increases it with snacks and stimulants. Drink vermouth, glass after glass; drinks successive cups of thick coffee; gulps beer. Drunk with his monomania, he hardly notices the alcoholic intoxication. Alcohols don’t add insanity to your idiosyncratic, permanent binge.

O dreamer, inveterate dreamer, dreamer of metallic fantasies! The gold of sterling pounds, the silkiness of banknotes, envelop him in continuous ideal symphonies. And he goes through life listening to the sonorous tinkling of the coins, stimulated by his inner music, maddened by the sarcastic excitement of his inner demon.

A madman makes a hundred madmen. The designer communicates his madness to his peers, and wherever he goes he leaves a trail of utopias. He regularly chooses soft and auspicious natures, such as those just landed. Then it happens that the one who arrives, as soon as he steps on the ground, collides with the creator of projects, and the man is irretrievably lost. Landing in America, in the land of gold,{170}and stumbling upon a man who shuffles business, spinning and piling up projects, this is as terrible as falling down the mouth of an abyss. Thus it is explained that the streets of the center are populated by a rare, hyperbolic, feverish crowd, which epileptically slams the spell of an identical madness. Everyone talks about huge projects, monstrous profits. On the tables of the cafes, standing in front of the counter of a “bar”, in the middle of the street, the designers gestured enthusiastically, or spoke very quietly, mysteriously, so that no one would surprise them with the idea and ruin their enormous business.

Huge business, yes; great business. Think of great destinations, or think of nothing. Sometimes it is about creating a city; other times the matter consists of irrigating a desert and valuing the lands in proportions of two to a thousand; other times there is talk of a prodigious invention, or of a new form of claim, or of joint-stock companies with unheard-of capital. The highest figures, the thousands and millions of pesos, dance a strange dance within those imagines{171}spurred tions. The rest of the world they find insensitive; they never leave the kidney of the city, and in those passionate and noisy streets, they find a morbid pleasure that alienates them. The din of trams and cars, the shouting of the boys, the stumbling, the continuous alarm of the street, all this inflames them.

Absorbed in his ideal, always trembling at the imminence of success, his brain becomes a hive of illusions. Within their souls there are wisps, sinister shadows, sudden and wonderful illuminations. They rhyme quantities, as the poet rhymes beautiful adjectives. Business poets, bizarre idealists in a Carthaginian environment, they become the butterflies or the romantic flower of the city center. Morbid and sickly flowers, heated by madness.

Until they slowly fall into destitution, and become tramps. Or any other night, their poor heads not being able to withstand such high pressure, they burst and die.

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