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Cache memory release GNU / Linux and it works.

Prior to indicate how to clean cache, it is important to know how a GNU / Linux uses memory circuits:

Physical Memory: RAM on your computer.

In use: Memory used by currently running processes.

In buffer: that stores data is pending to be written on the hard disk.

Caching: Save the information generated or required by the latest applications that were running for if they are re-occupied or required in the short term.

Free: unused memory that can be used by new processes or any process that requires it.

Swap: swapping, physical memory is busy on the computer RAM .

With the objective of how it is being used RAM of our team, we can use the free command.

1: For this open a terminal write the following:
root @ debian: ~ # free-m

example of how it works: Memory computer's RAM.

We charge 2 applications first occupies about 200mb 100mb and the second one in GNU / Linux system stops stored in the cache memory load applications the first time, as we see it, because the first time we open a program, their workload is very slow unlike the second time that it takes too long less and that the program is in the cache memory.

The cache is released alone but if we clean as we have many programs loaded at once and do not need them there the following commands denuevo.

0: No free nada:

root @ debian: ~ # echo0> / proc / sys / vm / drop_caches

1: Unleash pagecache:

root @ debian: ~ # echo1> / proc / sys / vm / drop_caches

2: Free

inode y dentro:

root @ debian: ~ # echo2> / proc / sys / vm / drop_caches

3: Free pagecache, y inodos dentries:

root @ debian: ~ # echo3> / proc / sys / vm / drop_caches

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Welcome to the Book Fair

Every year the same thing: advertising, culture, writers, entertainers, sales, all read, a city of culture, etc. And my standard response: that event will not go to shit, in fact, just to show the ignorance that permeates the air! I think I've gone three times, at most, and this year, fell again. My goal: walk like an idiot for potential publishers, if any, to take an independent line that fit my writing, dare to care and post my two books of stories and / or my novel. Lost time. I was about four hours wandering around this place full of ads, promotions and catalogs, wholesale, and only found a handful of independent publishers, romantic enough (or insane) enough to pay their small space promotion. Take this opportunity to recommend one of Medellín, beautiful, sober, dedicated to art and, of course, with little public (compared with the multinational publishers): "Skylight Publishers." None of them suited my books, or otherwise. For the rest: very little. It was not long when I discovered I had wasted the money of the input (the same money could serve out a book to buy second hand or, depending on the whim of the moment, a couple of beers). And now confirm what I've always thought, the Bogotá Book Fair (do not know how they will the other, but I guess that must seem) is a waste. For those (like me) who still believe that literature (novels, short stories, drama, poetry) is the guest of honor at this charade fair, the reality will be a bitter blow, not only for what they will encounter in the stands full of light and sellers hypocritical smile, but what that entails, including the social and global. By my calculations, literature occupies 40%, at most, the books are consumed by the reader of circumstances. The rest is occupied and dominated by self-improvement books, traffic religious beliefs, recipes and engineering, marketing and how to be a success. It is normal, that's what people want to consume, and as the public is given to purchase and emotional and spiritually inclined so that the "market" imposed, then there is nothing to do, go into a world that will end up killing the nobility of art and literature. And if you do not believe me, then just walk through the stands of multinational publishers (I will not say names to avoid lawsuits), like supermarkets, they stuffed in a single place all their products, plus products published by small publishers that are gone and now are part of their empires. The result is horrible and sad is a literature yes. But mixed with other books, the most idiotic consumers like. And by analyzing the titles of the novels or books of short stories or poetry, you realize that even they are part of a marketing strategy very well organized by transnational trafficking monsters letters. Le strategy is nothing but sell cheap literature and easy to eat, books that can be easily read by an uneducated public. In addition, to further convince the masses, these books should be accompanied by large signs in red letters displaying the number of copies sold around the world or top-notch awards he has won the writer (awards given by their own leaders: the big publishers. Like a snake biting its tail the award is given to those who guarantee success in sales). I say again: I am a nuisance and most people I read ends up hating, but if not me, then who will? Think about it: no need for a fair and all the publicity to achieve the same cultural role. Because in this damn show is the same as in any street or on television advertising, the same tomes flights. The purpose of the fair is to promote culture, as the organizers intend to make you think, authorities, politicians or even the guest writers who come to chats cheap and tacky in which they wallow in their fifteen minutes of popularity. No! The Book Fair is alive because the people are increasingly crude and ignorant. So it is with politics, just look at the kind of rabble that has more popular support. But is that people are so easy to master, you just have to smile and make you believe you are doing something for his own good when in fact it is stealing the life and soul. The mob believes more in the hypocritical smiles and statistics on what your flesh feel and your mind suffers. And now imagine the headlines idiot "Input record in the Book Fair" or "Colombians read more than twenty years ago." And everyone is happy (especially the multinational publishers). Well, in my case, back to thinking about literature contests (but small. Not that reward those who already have fame and reputation), and try to save for self-release my books that nobody reads. One more tip: Do not go to the book fair! If you want a book, there are a few libraries with beautiful treasures waiting to be read.

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dancing bodies.

Some may call me old fashioned, others perhaps more extreme, bitter, a few say that I am envious. But it is very easy to label me as outdated, bitter or envious, the reality is more complex to shut myself up in three simple words. However, careful thought, I would not know what other terms to use. So call me whatever you want, my life will remain the same, I am a construction of myself and, truth be told, I feel good, very good. Last night I checked again as she watched them dance. It was a nightclub in the city center (I will not say names because I have not received money from advertising). It is not that frequent these establishments, but this time I was invited by a friend to celebrate his departure, so that nothing do: I was surrounded by hundreds, thousands, millions of crowded and sweaty dancing bodies in convulsive movements. Fortunately, my beloved wife was with me between drinks, make fun of them and talk about things of beauty, dreams, poetry. What a delight to share the soul with another soul! The universe is infinite thought it was not, and really love a woman discovers that an enclosed living and the possibilities stretched far beyond. So what you believed was finite infinity, and the discovery of eternity it has become apparent. We laughed. Our position is privileged: we are in a kind of balcony, you only need to look down to find the chaos and frenzy of dancing bodies. It bothers me, bothers me extremely; is ugly, vulgar, rude. His skin shines, her limbs vibrate, its exhalations are solidified in the increasingly heavy air. Look at the faces, dear. They look like rubber masks, stretch and contract, are lost within their own gestures. And the eyes are lost, only see the whites, they are ghosts, ghosts in ecstasy. Men look to face challenging: "I am the male in this place, the women swoon at my dance and I give their sex. It will be a triumph for me, a man of truth. Fuck and never see you again." So many males believe be evolutionary peaks, but are just hairless apes, and, worse still, moving his body to the rhythm of that strange music. Pum, pum, pum. Legs to one side to the other arms. And looks, eyes challenging through the course of other perspectives: the lustful, the pheromones that capture crowding the place. Women like snakes move sensually haunted by the sound of a magic flute. Hips to one side to the other. Sex longing eyes. "Here I am. My body wants to be touched. Tonight will not sleep alone." New hip movements, accompanied by erotic gaze. Hands sliding across the shiny surface and sweaty. Boil. And the lights, which come from everywhere, light, go out, go on, go out ... Pum, pum, pum. All dance, are outlined, offer their flesh. Under the floor there is a gigantic monster, whose skin has many hairs human bodies seem to dance in the disco. It's kind of anemone, their limbs jelly you want with each other. My wife and I are under the sea and watched the ripples of these puddings venereal human. No, no love. They only move because the ocean current is in that direction. I propose one thing, my darling. Take the road against the current. Let us leave this world of moods and sweats, and we will continue to create our universe. Dance, dance. But just you and me. Let us round and round, revolve with infinitely. And let us love forever, away from them, away from the anemone.