A tua cara

Esta é a tua cara, embora eu nunca a tivesse visto assim.

Paris de nuit

Brassai was such a great artist

olhos de peixe, ouvidos de tisico

Fotografo graffitis, aprendi num livro de Brassai...
(Serão os graffiti directos precursores das "walls" do Facebook e quejandos ? O Brassai sentia neles a força vital das pinturas rupestres...)

Foro

Cocina para impostores

what to do about Amy ?...

in the first U2 album, a song called "a day without me"

let's get lost

a Bruce Weber site

Fire !

Read about Cai here

there's a party in my mind

Ride my cloud

- Oh, I'm out of here, oh, I'm riding my cloud
you're such a nice people, you're such a charming crowd
but lord, I'm outta here, I'm outta here right now.

Need to ride my cloud, now that I found it,
ride my cloud follow the wind, my life to live.

Going to Heaven

GOING TO HEAVEN!

by: Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

GOING to heaven!
I don't know when,
Pray do not ask me how,--
Indeed, I'm too astonished
To think of answering you!
Going to heaven!--
How dim it sounds!
And yet it will be done
As sure as flocks go home at night
Unto the shepherd's arm!

Perhaps you're going too!
Who knows?
If you should get there first,
Save just a little place for me
Close to the two I lost!
The smallest "robe" will fit me,
And just a bit of "crown";
For you know we do not mind our dress
When we are going home.

I'm glad I don't believe it,
For it would stop my breath,
And I'd like to look a little more
At such a curious earth!
I am glad they did believe it
Whom I have never found
Since the mighty autumn afternoon
I left them in the ground.

the truth about love

O Tell Me The Truth About Love by W. H. Auden

Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

Viveiro, Lugo o mundo

Maruja Mallo, excelente pintora

Déjà-vu

Some places you remember from your dreams, you fall into them in your waking life and they seem oddly familiar. You feel an itch, a slight change in the temperature of the air, you think to yourself : - "Hey, I've been here before..."
But that's not possible, never, ever in your life you had been to that place before.

great gig in the sky

Simply love this...
I first heard it when I was fourteen, it gave me the chills...still does.

light, camera, still

Dan Winters, good photography

General election

Metropolis by George Grosz

Os numeros ?

Os numeros são obscenos, como sempre foram,
os numeros são sangue, suor e lágrimas.

Não há como esconder isto.


The numbers ?

The numbers are obscene, as they always were,
the numbers are blood, sweat and tears.

There's no way you can hide this.

too much

Can't follow all the news...it's too much, I'll get overloaded.

indulging oneself

The Oyster Eater
Date unknown
by James Ensor

Night train

Passages

looking for cracks, fissures, crevices
places out of time

passages.


a pensar em fendas, fissuras, cavidades
espaços fora do tempo

passagens.

Neverwhere

T'ang dynasty

Lady in fur