A THOUSAND WORDS - Alex Waterhouse-Hayward's blog on pictures, plants, politics and whatever else is on his mind.




 

Orientación de los Gatos - Julio Cortázar
Monday, March 26, 2018





When Argentine writer Julio Cortázar would visit my father and chat in our warm kitchen. It was 1950 and I  had no idea who the man was. I was 8. And then when I grew up I was too stupid to ask my father (before he died) why Cortázar and he were friends.

When I was 8 I wanted a cat. Somehow all the strays I would bring into the garden of our house would disappear. Perhaps my mother did not like cats.

It is only now that Rosemary and I are enjoying our 8th or 9th cat, Casi-Casi that I have become aware that Cortázar besides playing the trumpet loved cats. Below a short story about his cat and wife. The version in English follows the one in Spanish.

Julio Cortázar y Flanelle


JULIO CORTAZAR.

ORIENTACIÓN DE LOS GATOS.
A JUAN SORIANO

Cuando Alana y Osiris me miran no puedo quejarme del menor disimulo, de la menor duplicidad. Me miran de frente, Alana su luz azul y Osiris su rayo verde. También entre ellos se miran así, Alana acariciando el negro lomo de Osiris que alza el hocico del plato de leche y maúlla satisfecho, mujer y gato conociéndose desde pianos que se me escapan, que mis caricias no alcanzan a rebasar. Hace tiempo que he renunciado a todo dominio sobre Osiris, somos buenos amigos desde una distancia infranqueable; pero Alana es mi mujer y la distancia entre nosotros es otra, algo que ella no parece sentir pero que se interpone en mi felicidad cuando Alana me mira, cuando me mira de frente igual que Osiris y me sonríe o me habla sin la menor reserva, dándose en cada gesto y cada cosa como se da en el amor, allí donde todo su cuerpo es como sus ojos, una entrega absoluta, una reciprocidad ininterrumpida.

Es extraño, aunque he renunciado a entrar de lleno en el mundo de Osiris, mi amor por Alana no acepta esa llaneza de cosa concluida, de pareja para siempre, de vida sin secretos. Detrás de esos ojos azules hay más, en el fondo de las palabras y los gemidos y los silencios alienta otro reino, respira otra Alana. Nunca se lo he dicho, la quiero demasiado para trizar esta superficie de felicidad por la que ya se han deslizado tantos días, tantos años. A mi manera me obstino en comprender, en descubrir; la observo pero sin espiarla; la sigo pero sin desconfiar; amo una maravillosa estatua mutilada; un texto no terminado, un fragmento de cielo inscrito en la ventana de la vida.

Hubo un tiempo en que la música me pareció el camino que me llevaría de verdad a Alana, mirándola escuchar nuestros discos de Bartok, de Duke Ellington, de Gal Costa, una transparencia paulatina me ahondaba en ella, la música la desnudaba de una manera diferente, la volvía cada vez más Alana porque Alana no podía ser solamente esa mujer que siempre me había mirado de lleno sin ocultarme nada. Contra Alana, más allá de Alana yo la buscaba para amarla mejor; y si al principio la música me dejó entrever otras Alanas, llegó el día en que f rente a un grabado de Rembrandt la vi cambiar todavía más, como si un juego de nubes en el ciclo alterara bruscamente las luces y las sombras de un paisaje. Sentí que la pintura la llevaba más allá de sí misma para ese único espectador que podía medir la instantánea metamorfosis nunca repetida, la entrevisión de Alana en Alana. Intercesores involuntarios, Keith Harrett, Beethoven y Anibal Troilo me habían ayudado a acercarme, pero frente a un cuadro o un grabado Alana se despojaba todavía más de eso que creía ser, por un momento entraba en un mundo imaginario para sin saberlo salir de si misma, yendo de una pintura a otra, comentándolas o callando, juego de cartas que cada nueva contemplación barajaba para aquel que sigiloso y atento, un poco atrás o llevándola del brazo, veía sucederse las reinas y los ases, los piques y los tréboles, Alana.
¿Qué se podía hacer con Osiris? Darle su leche, dejarlo en su ovillo negro satisfactorio y ronroneante; pero a Alana yo podía traerla a esta galería de cuadros como lo hice ayer, una vez más asistir a un teatro de espejo y de cámaras oscuras, de imágenes tensas en la tela frente a esa otra imagen de alegres jeans y blusa roja que después de aplastar el cigarrillo a la entrada iba de cuadro en cuadro, deteniéndose exactamente a la distancia que su mirada requería, volviéndose a mí de tanto en tanto para comentar o comparar. Jamás hubiera podido descubrir que yo no estaba ahí por los cuadros, que un poco atrás o de lado mi manera de mirar nada tenía que ver con la suya. Jamás se daría cuenta de que su lento y reflexivo paso de cuadro en cuadro la cambiaba hasta obligarme a cerrar los ojos y luchar para no apretarla en los brazos y llevármela al delirio, a una locura de carrera en plena calle. Desenvuelta, liviana en su naturalidad de goce y descubrimiento, sus altos y sus demoras se inscribían en un tiempo diferente del mío, ajeno a la crispada espera de mi sed.

Hasta entonces todo había sido un vago anuncio, Alana en la música, Alana frente a Rembrandt. Pero ahora mi esperanza empezaba a cumplirse casi insoportablemente, desde nuestra llegada Alana se había dado a las pinturas con una atroz inocencia de camaleón, pasando de un estado a otro sin saber que un espectador agazapado acechaba en su actitud, en la inclinación de su cabeza, en el movimiento de sus manos o sus labios el cromatismo interior que la recorría hasta mostrarla otra, allí donde la otra era siempre Alana sumándose a Alana, las cartas agolpándose hasta completar la baraja. A su lado, avanzando poco a poco a lo largo de los muros de la galería, la iba viendo darse a cada pintura, mis ojos multiplicaban un triángulo fulminante que se tendía de ella al cuadro y del cuadro a mí mismo para volver a ella y aprehender el cambio, la aureola diferente que la envolvía un momento para ceder después a un aura nueva, a una tonalidad que la exponía a la verdadera, a la última desnudez. Imposible prever hasta donde se repetiría esa ósmosis, cuántas nuevas Alanas me llevarían por fin a la síntesis de la que saldríamos los dos colmados, ella sin saberlo y encendiendo un nuevo cigarrillo antes de pedirme que la llevara a tomar un trago, yo sabiendo que mi larga búsqueda había llegado a puerto y que mi amor abarcaría desde ahora lo visible y lo invisible, aceptaría la limpia mirada de Alana sin incertidumbres de puertas cerradas, de pasajes vedados.

Frente a una barca solitaria y un primer piano de rocas negras, la vi quedarse inmóvil largo tiempo; un imperceptible ondular de las manos la hacia como nadar en el aire, buscar el mar abierto, una fuga de horizontes. Ya no podía extrañarme que esa otra pintura donde una reja de agudas puntas vedaba el acceso a los árboles linderos la hiciera retroceder como buscando un punto de mira, de golpe era la repulsa, el rechazo de un limite inaceptable. Pájaros, monstruos Marinos, ventanas dándose al silencio o dejando entrar un simulacro de la muerte, cada nueva pintura arrasaba a Alana despojándola de su color anterior, arrancando de ella las modulaciones de la libertad, del vuelo, de los grandes espacios, afirmando su negativa frente a la noche y a la nada, su ansiedad solar, su casi terrible impulso de ave fénix. Me quedé atrás sabiendo que no me sería posible soportar su mirada, su sorpresa interrogativa cuando viera en mi cara el deslumbramiento de la confirmación, porque eso era también yo, eso era mi proyecto Alana, mi vida Alana, eso había sido deseado por mí y refrenado por un presente de ciudad y parsimonia, eso ahora al fin Alana, al fin Alana y yo desde ahora, desde ya mismo. Hubiera querido tenerla desnuda en los brazos, amarla de tal manera que todo quedara claro, todo quedara dicho para siempre entre nosotros, y que de esa interminable noche de amor, nosotros que ya conocíamos tantas, naciera la primera alborada de la vida.

Llegábamos al final de la galería, me acerqué a la puerta de salida ocultando todavía la cara, esperando que el aire y las luces de la calle me volvieran a lo que Alana conocía de mi. La vi detenerse ante un cuadro que otros visitantes me habían ocultado, quedarse largamente inmóvil mirando la pintura de una ventana y un gato. Una última transformación hizo de ella una lenta estatua nítidamente separada de los demás, de mí que me acercaba indeciso buscándole los ojos perdidos en la tela. Vi que el gato era idéntico a Osiris y que miraba a lo lejos algo que el muro de la ventana no nos dejaba ver. Inmóvil en su contemplación, parecía menos inmóvil que la inmovilidad de Alana. De alguna manera sentí que el triángulo se había roto, cuando Alana volvió hacia mí la cabeza el triángulo ya no existía, ella había ido al cuadro pero no estaba de vuelta, seguía del lado del gato mirando más allá de la ventana donde nadie podía ver lo que ellos veían, lo que solamente Alana y Osiris veían cada vez que me miraban de frente.




A short story by Julio Cortázar ("The orientation of cats").  You can read the original here.

Whenever Alana and Osiris look at me I can complain neither of duplicity nor concealment.  They look at me head on, Alana with her bluish light and Osiris with his green rays.  They also look at one another this way, Alana stroking Osiris's black back which his nose and happy mouth reach from his milk bowl, woman and cat intimate on a level that eludes me, a level that my caresses cannot exceed.  It's been a while now since I renounced all control over Osiris – we're good friends at an unbreachable distance; but Alana is my wife and the distance between us is different, something that she doesn't seem to feel but which compromises my happiness whenever she looks at me, whenever she looks at me just like Osiris does and smiles or talks to me without the slightest reservation, every gesture and matter of hers handed over like love itself, as if her eyes comprised her entire body, a complete handover, uninterrupted reciprocity.

It's strange: although I have forsaken complete entry into Osiris's world, my love for Alana cannot accept the simplicity of closure, of always being together, of life without secrets.  Behind those blue eyes lies more; at the bottom of those words, those moans and those silences another kingdom, another Alana lives and breathes.  I've never told her this because I love her too much to dampen our superficial happiness, and besides, so many days, so many years have already passed.  In my way I am still trying to understand, to discover; I observe her without spying; I follow her without mistrust; I love a beautiful, mutilated statue, an unfinished text, a fragment of heaven written into the window of life.

There was a time when music seemed like my path to truth about Alana.  Looking at her I listened to the records of Bártok, Duke Ellington, and Gal Costa, and a gradual transparency took me deeper into her, the music uncloaked her in a different way, made her every time a little more like Alana because Alana could not only be this woman who had always looked at me fully without hiding a thing.  I looked against Alana, beyond Alana, in order to love her better.  And if music initially allowed me to espy other Alanas, the day came when I saw her change even more in front of an engraving by Rembrandt, as if a game of clouds in the sky had suddenly altered the chiaroscuro of a landscape.  I sensed that the painting carried her beyond herself in the eyes of the one observer who could notice the instantaneous metamorphosis never repeated, the view between Alana and Alana.  Involuntary intercessors – Keith Jarrett, Beethoven, and Aníbal Troilo – had helped me approach her, but facing a painting or engraving Alana still removed more of what I believed her to be.  She entered for a moment into an imaginary world so as to depart, without knowing it, from herself, moving from one painting to another, commenting on them then falling silent, a game of cards whereby every new thought merited stealthy and polite consideration.  A bit behind or by raising her arm,  Alana would follow queens and aces, spades and clubs.

What could be done with Osiris?  Give him milk, leave him curled up purring and happy in a black ball.  But Alana I could take to the picture gallery as I had yesterday, have her attend yet again a theater of mirrors and dark rooms, of tense images upon her body before that other image of light jeans and a red blouse which, after squashing a cigarette at the entrance, went from painting to painting, maintaining the exact distance that her look required, turning towards me now and again to comment or compare.  She would never have been able to discover that I was not there because of the paintings, that behind or beside her my way of looking at our surroundings had nothing to do with hers.  She would never realize that her slow and pensive step from painting to painting was changing her to such an extent that I was forced to close my eyes and struggle to keep myself from seizing her in my arms and delivering her to madness, to a mad race in the streets.  Relaxed and carefree in the naturalness of her pleasures and discovery, her highs and delays had been set to a different rhythm than mine, quite alien to the infuriating suppression of my thirst.

Until then everything had been a vague announcement, Alana in music, Alana before Rembrandt; but now my hopes began to become almost unbearable.  Since our arrival Alana had devoted herself to these paintings with the atrocious innocence of a chameleon, passing from one state to another without realizing that a crouching observer was lying in wait, looking in her posture, the inclination of her head, and the movement of her hands or lips for the interior chromatism coating her that would show her to be another, a state in which Alana was always being added to Alana, the cards piling up until the deck was full.  At her side, advancing little by little along the gallery walls, I walked and watched her engage herself in each painting, my eyes multiplying a flashing triangle made of her moving from painting to painting as points bound to me.  All of this was done to get back to her, to catch the change, the different halo which enveloped her one moment only to give way the next moment to a new aura, to a tonality which exposed her to a true and final unveiling.  It was impossible to foresee how long this osmosis would continue, how many new Alanas would ultimately be brought to me in the synthesis of the Alana whom the two of us, gorged on Alanas, would finally extract.  Of course, she would know nothing of this; she would simply light another cigarette and ask me to bring her a drink.  Whereas I would know that my long search had finally come to an end, that henceforth my love encompassed the visible and invisible, and I would accept Alana's clean gaze with no uncertainty of closed doors or forbidden passageways.

I saw her standing for a while and not moving before a lonely boat and an initial mass of black rock.  An imperceptible wave of her hands made her seem like she was swimming in the air, searching for the open sea, a flight towards the horizon.  I could not help finding it strange that another painting, in which a grille of acute dots prohibited access to a line of trees, made her step back as if looking for a certain vantage point.  And all of a sudden she was repulsed, having reached an unacceptable limit.  Birds, sea monsters, windows giving on to silence and letting in a simulacrum of death, every new painting destroyed Alana, depriving her of her previous color, ripping from her the modulations of liberty, of flight, of great open spaces, affirming her denial of night and nothingness, her fear of sunlight, her almost terrible impulse of the phoenix.  I stayed back knowing that I wouldn't be able to tolerate her gaze, her curious surprise when she looked me in the eye and saw bedazzled confirmation.  Because this was also what I was, this was my project Alana, my life Alana, this had been what I wanted and what was contained by a present time of city and parsimony, then now at last Alana, at last Alana and I from now on, from this very moment.  I would have liked to take her naked in my arms, love her in such a way that she would have no doubts and all would be said forever between us.  And from this endless night of love would emerge the first dawn of a new life for us who had known so many dawns already.

We arrived at the final exhibit in the gallery.  I moved closer to the exit, all the while hiding my face and hoping that the air and lights in the street would bring back what Alana knew of me.  I saw her stop before a painting whose view had been blocked by other visitors.  She stayed there for a long time without budging, gazing at the picture of a window and a cat.  One last transformation made her into a statue cleanly separated from all the others, from me who was now approaching indecisively, looking for her lost eyes amidst her form.  I noticed that the cat was identical to Osiris and that it was gazing at something far away which the window wall did not let us see.  Completely unmoving and deep in thought was the cat, yet still not as motionless as Alana.  Somehow I sensed that the triangle had been broken; when Alana turned her head towards me the triangle no longer existed.  She had gone into the picture but had not come back.  From the other, betrayed side she continued looking beyond the window where no one could see what they could see, what only Alana and Osiris could see every time they looked right at me.



     

Previous Posts
The Rush of Memory

Gambas

Robert D. Kaplan & Vladimir Putin's Character

Peter Anderson That Lavinian Butcher

Butcher at the Cultch - The Death of a Genocide

Joe Keithley - True to Himself

La Rendija - Don Tirso de Irureta Goyena

Cara o Cruz

The Travails of Effervescence

Rebecca a Ghost Presence in Mérida in 2018



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11/21/10 - 11/28/10

11/28/10 - 12/5/10

12/5/10 - 12/12/10

12/12/10 - 12/19/10

12/19/10 - 12/26/10

12/26/10 - 1/2/11

1/2/11 - 1/9/11

1/9/11 - 1/16/11

1/16/11 - 1/23/11

1/23/11 - 1/30/11

1/30/11 - 2/6/11

2/6/11 - 2/13/11

2/13/11 - 2/20/11

2/20/11 - 2/27/11

2/27/11 - 3/6/11

3/6/11 - 3/13/11

3/13/11 - 3/20/11

3/20/11 - 3/27/11

3/27/11 - 4/3/11

4/3/11 - 4/10/11

4/10/11 - 4/17/11

4/17/11 - 4/24/11

4/24/11 - 5/1/11

5/1/11 - 5/8/11

5/8/11 - 5/15/11

5/15/11 - 5/22/11

5/22/11 - 5/29/11

5/29/11 - 6/5/11

6/5/11 - 6/12/11

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6/19/11 - 6/26/11

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7/3/11 - 7/10/11

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7/24/11 - 7/31/11

7/31/11 - 8/7/11

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8/21/11 - 8/28/11

8/28/11 - 9/4/11

9/4/11 - 9/11/11

9/11/11 - 9/18/11

9/18/11 - 9/25/11

9/25/11 - 10/2/11

10/2/11 - 10/9/11

10/9/11 - 10/16/11

10/16/11 - 10/23/11

10/23/11 - 10/30/11

10/30/11 - 11/6/11

11/6/11 - 11/13/11

11/13/11 - 11/20/11

11/20/11 - 11/27/11

11/27/11 - 12/4/11

12/4/11 - 12/11/11

12/11/11 - 12/18/11

12/18/11 - 12/25/11

12/25/11 - 1/1/12

1/1/12 - 1/8/12

1/8/12 - 1/15/12

1/15/12 - 1/22/12

1/22/12 - 1/29/12

1/29/12 - 2/5/12

2/5/12 - 2/12/12

2/12/12 - 2/19/12

2/19/12 - 2/26/12

2/26/12 - 3/4/12

3/4/12 - 3/11/12

3/11/12 - 3/18/12

3/18/12 - 3/25/12

3/25/12 - 4/1/12

4/1/12 - 4/8/12

4/8/12 - 4/15/12

4/15/12 - 4/22/12

4/22/12 - 4/29/12

4/29/12 - 5/6/12

5/6/12 - 5/13/12

5/13/12 - 5/20/12

5/20/12 - 5/27/12

5/27/12 - 6/3/12

6/3/12 - 6/10/12

6/10/12 - 6/17/12

6/17/12 - 6/24/12

6/24/12 - 7/1/12

7/1/12 - 7/8/12

7/8/12 - 7/15/12

7/15/12 - 7/22/12

7/22/12 - 7/29/12

7/29/12 - 8/5/12

8/5/12 - 8/12/12

8/12/12 - 8/19/12

8/19/12 - 8/26/12

8/26/12 - 9/2/12

9/2/12 - 9/9/12

9/9/12 - 9/16/12

9/16/12 - 9/23/12

9/23/12 - 9/30/12

9/30/12 - 10/7/12

10/7/12 - 10/14/12

10/14/12 - 10/21/12

10/21/12 - 10/28/12

10/28/12 - 11/4/12

11/4/12 - 11/11/12

11/11/12 - 11/18/12

11/18/12 - 11/25/12

11/25/12 - 12/2/12

12/2/12 - 12/9/12

12/9/12 - 12/16/12

12/16/12 - 12/23/12

12/23/12 - 12/30/12

12/30/12 - 1/6/13

1/6/13 - 1/13/13

1/13/13 - 1/20/13

1/20/13 - 1/27/13

1/27/13 - 2/3/13

2/3/13 - 2/10/13

2/10/13 - 2/17/13

2/17/13 - 2/24/13

2/24/13 - 3/3/13

3/3/13 - 3/10/13

3/10/13 - 3/17/13

3/17/13 - 3/24/13

3/24/13 - 3/31/13

3/31/13 - 4/7/13

4/7/13 - 4/14/13

4/14/13 - 4/21/13

4/21/13 - 4/28/13

4/28/13 - 5/5/13

5/5/13 - 5/12/13

5/12/13 - 5/19/13

5/19/13 - 5/26/13

5/26/13 - 6/2/13

6/2/13 - 6/9/13

6/9/13 - 6/16/13

6/16/13 - 6/23/13

6/23/13 - 6/30/13

6/30/13 - 7/7/13

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7/14/13 - 7/21/13

7/21/13 - 7/28/13

7/28/13 - 8/4/13

8/4/13 - 8/11/13

8/11/13 - 8/18/13

8/18/13 - 8/25/13

8/25/13 - 9/1/13

9/1/13 - 9/8/13

9/8/13 - 9/15/13

9/15/13 - 9/22/13

9/22/13 - 9/29/13

9/29/13 - 10/6/13

10/6/13 - 10/13/13

10/13/13 - 10/20/13

10/20/13 - 10/27/13

10/27/13 - 11/3/13

11/3/13 - 11/10/13

11/10/13 - 11/17/13

11/17/13 - 11/24/13

11/24/13 - 12/1/13

12/1/13 - 12/8/13

12/8/13 - 12/15/13

12/15/13 - 12/22/13

12/22/13 - 12/29/13

12/29/13 - 1/5/14

1/5/14 - 1/12/14

1/12/14 - 1/19/14

1/19/14 - 1/26/14

1/26/14 - 2/2/14

2/2/14 - 2/9/14

2/9/14 - 2/16/14

2/16/14 - 2/23/14

2/23/14 - 3/2/14

3/2/14 - 3/9/14

3/9/14 - 3/16/14

3/16/14 - 3/23/14

3/23/14 - 3/30/14

3/30/14 - 4/6/14

4/6/14 - 4/13/14

4/13/14 - 4/20/14

4/20/14 - 4/27/14

4/27/14 - 5/4/14

5/4/14 - 5/11/14

5/11/14 - 5/18/14

5/18/14 - 5/25/14

5/25/14 - 6/1/14

6/1/14 - 6/8/14

6/8/14 - 6/15/14

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6/22/14 - 6/29/14

6/29/14 - 7/6/14

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7/13/14 - 7/20/14

7/20/14 - 7/27/14

7/27/14 - 8/3/14

8/3/14 - 8/10/14

8/10/14 - 8/17/14

8/17/14 - 8/24/14

8/24/14 - 8/31/14

8/31/14 - 9/7/14

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9/14/14 - 9/21/14

9/21/14 - 9/28/14

9/28/14 - 10/5/14

10/5/14 - 10/12/14

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10/19/14 - 10/26/14

10/26/14 - 11/2/14

11/2/14 - 11/9/14

11/9/14 - 11/16/14

11/16/14 - 11/23/14

11/23/14 - 11/30/14

11/30/14 - 12/7/14

12/7/14 - 12/14/14

12/14/14 - 12/21/14

12/21/14 - 12/28/14

12/28/14 - 1/4/15

1/4/15 - 1/11/15

1/11/15 - 1/18/15

1/18/15 - 1/25/15

1/25/15 - 2/1/15

2/1/15 - 2/8/15

2/8/15 - 2/15/15

2/15/15 - 2/22/15

2/22/15 - 3/1/15

3/1/15 - 3/8/15

3/8/15 - 3/15/15

3/15/15 - 3/22/15

3/22/15 - 3/29/15

3/29/15 - 4/5/15

4/5/15 - 4/12/15

4/12/15 - 4/19/15

4/19/15 - 4/26/15

4/26/15 - 5/3/15

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5/24/15 - 5/31/15

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6/21/15 - 6/28/15

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9/20/15 - 9/27/15

9/27/15 - 10/4/15

10/4/15 - 10/11/15

10/18/15 - 10/25/15

10/25/15 - 11/1/15

11/1/15 - 11/8/15

11/8/15 - 11/15/15

11/15/15 - 11/22/15

11/22/15 - 11/29/15

11/29/15 - 12/6/15

12/6/15 - 12/13/15

12/13/15 - 12/20/15

12/20/15 - 12/27/15

12/27/15 - 1/3/16

1/3/16 - 1/10/16

1/10/16 - 1/17/16

1/31/16 - 2/7/16

2/7/16 - 2/14/16

2/14/16 - 2/21/16

2/21/16 - 2/28/16

2/28/16 - 3/6/16

3/6/16 - 3/13/16

3/13/16 - 3/20/16

3/20/16 - 3/27/16

3/27/16 - 4/3/16

4/3/16 - 4/10/16

4/10/16 - 4/17/16

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4/24/16 - 5/1/16

5/1/16 - 5/8/16

5/8/16 - 5/15/16

5/15/16 - 5/22/16

5/22/16 - 5/29/16

5/29/16 - 6/5/16

6/5/16 - 6/12/16

6/12/16 - 6/19/16

6/19/16 - 6/26/16

6/26/16 - 7/3/16

7/3/16 - 7/10/16

7/10/16 - 7/17/16

7/17/16 - 7/24/16

7/24/16 - 7/31/16

7/31/16 - 8/7/16

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8/14/16 - 8/21/16

8/21/16 - 8/28/16

8/28/16 - 9/4/16

9/4/16 - 9/11/16

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9/25/16 - 10/2/16

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10/16/16 - 10/23/16

10/23/16 - 10/30/16

10/30/16 - 11/6/16

11/6/16 - 11/13/16

11/13/16 - 11/20/16

11/20/16 - 11/27/16

11/27/16 - 12/4/16

12/4/16 - 12/11/16

12/11/16 - 12/18/16

12/18/16 - 12/25/16

12/25/16 - 1/1/17

1/1/17 - 1/8/17

1/8/17 - 1/15/17

1/15/17 - 1/22/17

1/22/17 - 1/29/17

1/29/17 - 2/5/17

2/5/17 - 2/12/17

2/12/17 - 2/19/17

2/19/17 - 2/26/17

2/26/17 - 3/5/17

3/5/17 - 3/12/17

3/12/17 - 3/19/17

3/19/17 - 3/26/17

3/26/17 - 4/2/17

4/2/17 - 4/9/17

4/9/17 - 4/16/17

4/16/17 - 4/23/17

4/23/17 - 4/30/17

4/30/17 - 5/7/17

5/7/17 - 5/14/17

5/14/17 - 5/21/17

5/21/17 - 5/28/17

5/28/17 - 6/4/17

6/4/17 - 6/11/17

6/11/17 - 6/18/17

6/18/17 - 6/25/17

6/25/17 - 7/2/17

7/2/17 - 7/9/17

7/9/17 - 7/16/17

7/16/17 - 7/23/17

7/23/17 - 7/30/17

7/30/17 - 8/6/17

8/6/17 - 8/13/17

8/13/17 - 8/20/17

8/20/17 - 8/27/17

8/27/17 - 9/3/17

9/3/17 - 9/10/17

9/10/17 - 9/17/17

9/17/17 - 9/24/17

9/24/17 - 10/1/17

10/1/17 - 10/8/17

10/8/17 - 10/15/17

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10/22/17 - 10/29/17

10/29/17 - 11/5/17

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11/12/17 - 11/19/17

11/19/17 - 11/26/17

11/26/17 - 12/3/17

12/3/17 - 12/10/17

12/10/17 - 12/17/17

12/17/17 - 12/24/17

12/24/17 - 12/31/17

12/31/17 - 1/7/18

1/7/18 - 1/14/18

1/14/18 - 1/21/18

1/21/18 - 1/28/18

1/28/18 - 2/4/18

2/4/18 - 2/11/18

2/11/18 - 2/18/18

2/18/18 - 2/25/18

2/25/18 - 3/4/18

3/4/18 - 3/11/18

3/11/18 - 3/18/18

3/18/18 - 3/25/18

3/25/18 - 4/1/18

4/1/18 - 4/8/18

4/8/18 - 4/15/18

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4/22/18 - 4/29/18

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5/13/18 - 5/20/18

5/20/18 - 5/27/18

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7/1/18 - 7/8/18

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7/22/18 - 7/29/18

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9/23/18 - 9/30/18

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10/21/18 - 10/28/18

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11/18/18 - 11/25/18

11/25/18 - 12/2/18

12/2/18 - 12/9/18

12/9/18 - 12/16/18

12/16/18 - 12/23/18

12/23/18 - 12/30/18

12/30/18 - 1/6/19

1/6/19 - 1/13/19

1/13/19 - 1/20/19

1/20/19 - 1/27/19

1/27/19 - 2/3/19

2/3/19 - 2/10/19

2/10/19 - 2/17/19

2/17/19 - 2/24/19

3/3/19 - 3/10/19

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3/24/19 - 3/31/19

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4/21/19 - 4/28/19

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9/22/19 - 9/29/19

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11/10/19 - 11/17/19

11/17/19 - 11/24/19

11/24/19 - 12/1/19

12/1/19 - 12/8/19

12/8/19 - 12/15/19

12/15/19 - 12/22/19

12/22/19 - 12/29/19

12/29/19 - 1/5/20

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1/19/20 - 1/26/20

1/26/20 - 2/2/20

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2/23/20 - 3/1/20

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1/24/21 - 1/31/21

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2/19/23 - 2/26/23

2/26/23 - 3/5/23

3/5/23 - 3/12/23

3/12/23 - 3/19/23

3/19/23 - 3/26/23

3/26/23 - 4/2/23

4/2/23 - 4/9/23

4/9/23 - 4/16/23

4/16/23 - 4/23/23

4/23/23 - 4/30/23

4/30/23 - 5/7/23

5/7/23 - 5/14/23

5/14/23 - 5/21/23

5/21/23 - 5/28/23

5/28/23 - 6/4/23

6/4/23 - 6/11/23

6/11/23 - 6/18/23

6/18/23 - 6/25/23

6/25/23 - 7/2/23

7/2/23 - 7/9/23

7/9/23 - 7/16/23

7/16/23 - 7/23/23

7/23/23 - 7/30/23

7/30/23 - 8/6/23

8/6/23 - 8/13/23

8/13/23 - 8/20/23

8/20/23 - 8/27/23

8/27/23 - 9/3/23

9/3/23 - 9/10/23

9/10/23 - 9/17/23

9/17/23 - 9/24/23

9/24/23 - 10/1/23

10/1/23 - 10/8/23

10/8/23 - 10/15/23

10/22/23 - 10/29/23

10/29/23 - 11/5/23

11/5/23 - 11/12/23

11/12/23 - 11/19/23

11/19/23 - 11/26/23

11/26/23 - 12/3/23

12/3/23 - 12/10/23

12/10/23 - 12/17/23

12/17/23 - 12/24/23

12/24/23 - 12/31/23

12/31/23 - 1/7/24

1/7/24 - 1/14/24

1/14/24 - 1/21/24

1/21/24 - 1/28/24

1/28/24 - 2/4/24

2/4/24 - 2/11/24

2/11/24 - 2/18/24

2/18/24 - 2/25/24

2/25/24 - 3/3/24

3/3/24 - 3/10/24

3/10/24 - 3/17/24

3/17/24 - 3/24/24

3/24/24 - 3/31/24