Thursday, October 1, 2009
Patrias
"A minha Pátria é o meu frigorífico!"*
"My fatherland is my fridge!"
"Ma patrie c'est mon frigo!"
*atribuido a Paulo Nozolino
And you and I
Today is International Music day...and you and I could sail on the wings of a song to the breakings of the morning...
Coetzee on politics
I think Coetzee must love the last post...not my choice of music on this post though...
Land
LAND
under orders from my ancestors you were occupied
had I language I could write for you were land my land
but me you never wanted
no matter how I stretched to lie down
in rustling blue gums
in cattle lowering horns into Diepvlei
rippling the quivering jowls drink
in silky tassels in dripping gum
in thorn trees that have slid down into emptiness
me you never wanted
me you could never endure
time and again you shook me off
you rolled me out
land, slowly I became nameless in my mouth
now you are fought over
negotiated divided paddocked sold stolen mortgaged
I want to go underground with you land
land that would not have me
land that never belonged to me
land that I love more fruitlessly than before
© 2000, Antjie Krog
© Translation: Karen Press
From: Down to my last skin
Publisher: Random House, South Africa,
ISBN: 0 9584195 5 8
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Smile
LV1
Acrylic and colour pencil on paper
25 x 25 cm | 10 x 10 in
2009
This is a drawing from Catarina Lira Pereira, she is so kind and just published it in her facebook wall. I love her themes, the way she picks the small moments that make up our lives.
I'm RAEL
The album tells the surreal story of a half-Puerto Rican juvenile delinquent named Rael living in New York City, who is swept underground to face bizarre creatures and nightmarish dangers in order to rescue his brother John. Several of the story's occurrences and places were derived from Peter Gabriel's dreams, and the protagonist's name is a play on his surname. In an interview Phil Collins remarked, "It's about a "split personality".
In this context, Rael would believe he is looking for John but is actually looking for a missing part of himself. The individual songs also make satirical allusions to everything from mythology to the sexual revolution to advertising and consumerism.
Back when I was the age the main character of Nick Hornby's "High Fidelity" cristalized into, I always pointed out Genesis "The Lamb lies down on Broadway" as my favorite album of all time.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Pleasantries
"Undergrowth with a Couple", oil on canvas, 50.0 x 100.5 cm, between June 18 and 22, 1890.
Cincinnati Art Museum, Cincinnati, USA.
pleas·ant·ry (plzn-tr)
n. pl. pleas·ant·ries
1. A humorous remark or act; a jest.
2. A polite social utterance; a civility: exchanged pleasantries before getting down to business.
3. A good-humored or playful manner in conversation or social relations.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[French plaisanterie, from Old French plesanterie, from plaisant, pleasant; see pleasant.]
The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition copyright ©2000 by Houghton Mifflin Company. Updated in 2009. Published by Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved
la nudité naturelle
L’atelier du peintre, 1855 musée d’Orsay
One day I found myself naked in the middle of strangers : they needed to close the rest room after a sports class and someone had hid my clothes from me, not the best of feelings I tell you...
Monday, September 28, 2009
Mary
Just found this on the Net today, I think it's good :
Marcus Jackson: Mary at the Tattoo Shop
She counted her money
before we went in,
avenue beside us anxious
with Friday-evening traffic.
Both fourteen, we shared a Newport,
its manila butt salty to our lips.
Inside, from a huge book
of designs and letter styles,
she chose to get “MARY”
in a black, Old English script
on the back of her neck.
The guy who ran the shop
leaned over her for forty minutes
with a needled gun
that buzzed loud
as if trying to get free.
He took her twenty-five dollars
then another ten
for being under age.
Back outside, the sun
dipped behind rooftops,
about to hand the sky over to night.
Lifting her hazel hair,
she asked me to rub
some A&D ointment
on her new tattoo;
my finger glistened in salve
as I reached for her swollen name.
Marcus Jackson: Mary at the Tattoo Shop
She counted her money
before we went in,
avenue beside us anxious
with Friday-evening traffic.
Both fourteen, we shared a Newport,
its manila butt salty to our lips.
Inside, from a huge book
of designs and letter styles,
she chose to get “MARY”
in a black, Old English script
on the back of her neck.
The guy who ran the shop
leaned over her for forty minutes
with a needled gun
that buzzed loud
as if trying to get free.
He took her twenty-five dollars
then another ten
for being under age.
Back outside, the sun
dipped behind rooftops,
about to hand the sky over to night.
Lifting her hazel hair,
she asked me to rub
some A&D ointment
on her new tattoo;
my finger glistened in salve
as I reached for her swollen name.
Death is an ugly business
Esta rocha estava no fundo do mar e esteve lá tempo suficiente
para claramente mostrar em si as marcas disso.
Esta rocha é incapaz de se mover, não existe modo algum de ela por si ir a qualquer lado, contudo este sítio onde estamos e o fundo do mar são muito diferentes,
principalmente para mim que necessito respirar.
Tenho este amigo que vai apodrecendo, põe-lhe pensos para o esquecimento nas costas
e ele apodrece, não sei se lentamente, se rapidamente, apodrece ao ritmo dos seus átomos e
das suas moléculas, apodrece na paz do seu lar, longe dos olhos dos outros
apodrece ruidosamente, ao contrário de nós todos que o fazemos pela calada.
Lembro-me de como ele gostava de andar na moda, das coisas boas da vida,
da tia solteirona que toda a vida o mimou, lembro-me que não somos nada
perante a vontade indomável dos átomos.
Olho a rocha e penso, como somos iguais,
a pedra e eu, hoje estamos num sítio e somos uma coisa,
amanhã seremos outra, noutro sítio qualquer.
para claramente mostrar em si as marcas disso.
Esta rocha é incapaz de se mover, não existe modo algum de ela por si ir a qualquer lado, contudo este sítio onde estamos e o fundo do mar são muito diferentes,
principalmente para mim que necessito respirar.
Tenho este amigo que vai apodrecendo, põe-lhe pensos para o esquecimento nas costas
e ele apodrece, não sei se lentamente, se rapidamente, apodrece ao ritmo dos seus átomos e
das suas moléculas, apodrece na paz do seu lar, longe dos olhos dos outros
apodrece ruidosamente, ao contrário de nós todos que o fazemos pela calada.
Lembro-me de como ele gostava de andar na moda, das coisas boas da vida,
da tia solteirona que toda a vida o mimou, lembro-me que não somos nada
perante a vontade indomável dos átomos.
Olho a rocha e penso, como somos iguais,
a pedra e eu, hoje estamos num sítio e somos uma coisa,
amanhã seremos outra, noutro sítio qualquer.
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