artist's website here
Friday, January 22, 2010
three dutch women
creator]:Sherman, Augustus F. (Augustus Francis)
[Three Dutch women.], c1905
New York Public Library: 1206548
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Help me here...
A drone effect can be achieved through a sustained sound or through repetition of a note. It most often establishes a tonality upon which the rest of the piece is built.
Do you think I'm right ? That this song ilustrates the concept ?
Do you think I'm right ? That this song ilustrates the concept ?
hope against hope
from Racialicious - the intersection of race and pop culture by Latoya Peterson
Discrimination is a hellhound that gnaws at Negroes in every waking moment of their lives to remind them that the lie of their inferiority is accepted as truth in the society dominating them.
The Negroes of America had taken the President, the press and the pulpit at their word when they spoke in broad terms of freedom and justice. But the absence of brutality and unregenerate evil is not the presence of justice. To stay murder is not the same thing as to ordain brotherhood.
A good many observers have remarked that if equality could come at once the Negro would not be ready for it. I submit that the white American is even more unprepared.
A nation that continues year after year to spend more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is approaching spiritual death.
Somehow this madness must cease. We must stop now. I speak as a child of God and brother to the suffering poor of Vietnam. I speak for those whose land is being laid waste, whose homes are being destroyed, whose culture is being subverted. I speak for the poor in America who are paying the double price of smashed hopes at home and death and corruption in Vietnam. I speak as a citizen of the world, for the world as it stands aghast at the path we have taken. I speak as an American to the leaders of my own nation. The great initiative in this war is ours. The initiative to stop it must be ours.
[I]t is necessary to understand that Black Power is a cry of disappointment. The Black Power slogan did not spring full grown from the head of some philosophical Zeus. It was born from the wounds of despair and disappointment. It is a cry of daily hurt and persistent pain.
It may be true that the law cannot make a man love me, but it can keep him from lynching me, and I think that’s pretty important.
Being a Negro in America means trying to smile when you want to cry. It means trying to hold on to physical life amid psychological death. It means the pain of watching your children grow up with clouds of inferiority in their mental skies. It means having your legs cut off, and then being condemned for being a cripple. It means seeing your mother and father spiritually murdered by the slings and arrows of daily exploitation, and then being hated for being an orphan.
To be a Negro in America is to hope against hope.
(For more quotes, and the speech sources for the ones excerpted here, please visit MLK Online)
Podem-se tirar as citações do contexto em que foram emitidas e arranjaremos inúmeros usos, em que se enquadram perfeitamente as mesmas.
É preciso vencer o medo.
This quotes can be contextualized for several uses, they'll fit wherever and whenever there's injustice and discrimination - and sadly there's plenty.
One has to win over fear.
Imaginary rooms
Este livro apresenta uma série de pinturas, realizadas entre 2001 e 2006, em que Nikias Skapinakis escolheu como tema "Quartos Imaginários". Muitos dos trabalhos são dedicados a artistas e escritores por quem Arpad Szenes e Vieira da Silva tinham grande admiração ou amizade, como por exemplo Cézanne, Picasso, Morandi, Klee e ainda os escritores Fernando Pessoa e Cesariny.
“Pintar o seu próprio quarto, que coisa mais rara ou mais preciosa! Mas pintar o de um outro artista, ou de um poeta, deitar-se nos seus lençóis, mergulhar no tingimento dos seus sonhos, que transmigração! A nossa voz muda com as suas palavras e os seus silêncios. A nossa realidade muda com as suas angústias e as suas esperanças.” Michel Butor
Nikias Skapinakis, Quartos Imaginários. Lisboa, Edições Gémeo, 2006
Love, too
Mother killed son out of 'love'
By Margaret Ryan and Sarah White
BBC News
Frances Inglis has been given a life sentence after being found guilty of killing her 22-year-old son Thomas. What drove a mother to inject her own child with a fatal dose of heroin when she was already on bail for a previous attempt at taking his life?
When Frances Inglis killed her own son with a lethal injection of heroin she did so with "love in her heart", she told an Old Bailey jury.
She believed what she was performing was an "act of mercy" after Thomas suffered serious head injuries when he jumped from a moving ambulance in July 2007.
Judge Brian Barker QC told Inglis that although the court could understand the "unhappiness" she was experiencing, what she had intended was a "terrible thing".
He said: "You knew you were breaking society's conventions, you knew you were breaking the law, and you knew the consequences."
He told her she has to serve a minimum of nine years in jail, although the days she has already spent in custody would count as part of that.
Heroin plea
The prosecution argued from an early stage that after Thomas had been injured, Inglis decided her son would not want to live the life he was leading.
And during the trial a picture emerged of a mother who believed she knew what was best for her brain-damaged son.
Inglis, who was doing a nursing diploma, refused to believe an encouraging prognosis from one of the doctors at Queen's Hospital in Romford, Essex.
As she sat by her son's hospital bedside, she said: "All I saw was horror, pain and tragedy."
Her eldest son Alex told the court how his mother was convinced Tom was being "tortured" by constant pain.
"She was constantly frantic and crying and just in a crazy state. You couldn't speak to her," he said.
Thomas had been injured in a fight outside a pub one Friday night but it was when he came out of the ambulance that he suffered the serious head injuries.
Police said they understood Tom was being taken to hospital against his wishes and that the ambulance door opened three times.
Inglis, who is now 57, quickly began researching her son's condition on the internet.
It was to a neighbour, Sharon Robinson, that she turned to ask for help in finding heroin to kill her son - 10 days after he was injured.
But Ms Robinson, who described Inglis as a "wonderful mother who helped others less fortunate than herself", instead alerted the police.
Ms Robinson told the BBC: "She said her son was lying in a hospital bed and in her mind he was dead. The hospital was infusing all sorts of poisons and drugs into him.
"She wanted to know if I could get heroin for her to kill him and take her own life."
"She was hysterical to say the least."
Ms Robinson told the BBC her close friend of 15 years had been screaming and crying so much the police had had to intervene.
She said: "She was mad and so upset. She couldn't be consoled. She was flailing her arms about. When I tried restraining her I could smell drink on her breath.
"I asked her to think about her other children, but she said they had their father and Tom needed to be released from being this shell of a person more.
"To Frankie her son was dead once he fell from the back of an ambulance.
"But when I called the police it made matters worse. They had to explain to me why she hated the police and ambulance service so much."
Planned moves
Undeterred Inglis, of Dagenham, east London, managed to get hold of street heroin and injected her son as he lay in his hospital bed.
She left thinking he was dead and went for a walk with her dog expecting to be arrested. Instead she was called back to hospital to be told he had been resuscitated.
Arrested later for attempted murder she lied about her involvement because she wanted to be free to "release" her son.
At her home police found letters Inglis had written, one of which read: "People keep saying Tom is not suffering. How can they know how he feels."
Having survived the murder attempt, Thomas was moved to a rehabilitation centre in Hertfordshire.
His mother, then on bail for his attempted murder, was banned from seeing him. But 14 months after her first failed attempt, she again injected her son with heroin and this time succeeded in killing him.
She had managed to get 10 packets of heroin for £200.
Planning her next move, she checked patient notes to work out when she would be alone in the room long enough to kill her son.
At home she had left instructions on running the home, worried about her youngest son Michael and her dog. She said her family had no idea what she intended to do.
She put a picture of Tom and a prayer Tom's girlfriend had given her on a bed, knowing she would be arrested for what she was about to do.
After drinking some brandy in the hospital car park she used an assumed name to get into the nursing home.
'No choice'
Alone with her son, she said: "I took the syringe and injected him and held him and told him everything would be fine."
When staff tried to get in she said she had HIV. She barricaded herself in using an oxygen cylinder and put strong glue in the lock.
Inglis, of Dagenham, who had denied murder and attempted murder, broke down in tears as she gave evidence saying she had "no choice" but to do what she did.
"The definition of murder is to take someone's life with malice in your heart. I did it with love in my heart, for Tom, so I don't see it as murder. I knew what I was doing was against the law."
Inglis, who was wearing a green cardigan, sat quietly as the judge outlined her actions during her sentencing.
He called the case "highly unusual and very sad" and described Inglis as a "devoted mother" who was "highly regarded" for her work in the community.
One woman who had worked with her at a school for people with learning disabilities in Ilford when she was a learning support assistant, described Inglis as "loving, honourable and trustworthy".
But everything changed for Inglis the day she got a knock on her door from the police one Saturday morning to tell her that her son had been injured.
Story from BBC NEWS:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/2/hi/uk_news/8466140.stm
Published: 2010/01/20 16:27:35 GMT
© BBC MMX
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
like a rolling stone
Alguém te aborda na rua e pede-te uma ajuda, porque diz não é de cá, está cá porque está a fazer quimio aqui e chora, dorme no banco do Hospital diz...e tu finges que ajudas, esperando que ela finja que chore, finja que precise de quimio, finja que pernoite no Banco do Hospital...
like an elephant
Robert Lowell: “To Speak of Woe That Is in Marriage”
“The hot night makes us keep our bedroom windows open.
Our magnolia blossoms.Life begins to happen.
My hopped up husband drops his home disputes,
and hits the streets to cruise for prostitutes,
free-lancing out along the razor’s edge.
This screwball might kill his wife, then take the pledge.
Oh the monotonous meanness of his lust. . .
It’s the injustice . . . he is so unjust–
whiskey-blind, swaggering home at five.
My only thought is how to keep alive.
What makes him tick? Each night now I tie
ten dollars and his car key to my thigh. . . .
Gored by the climacteric of his want,
he stalls above me like an elephant.”
Been to a burlesque show in a Cabaret last night...don't know if I should be happy or sad...
“The hot night makes us keep our bedroom windows open.
Our magnolia blossoms.Life begins to happen.
My hopped up husband drops his home disputes,
and hits the streets to cruise for prostitutes,
free-lancing out along the razor’s edge.
This screwball might kill his wife, then take the pledge.
Oh the monotonous meanness of his lust. . .
It’s the injustice . . . he is so unjust–
whiskey-blind, swaggering home at five.
My only thought is how to keep alive.
What makes him tick? Each night now I tie
ten dollars and his car key to my thigh. . . .
Gored by the climacteric of his want,
he stalls above me like an elephant.”
Been to a burlesque show in a Cabaret last night...don't know if I should be happy or sad...
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Noite, um pouco de chuva/ Night a little rain
Avançamos devagar pela avenida escura,
Os faróis do carro abrindo caminho por entre a morrinha que cai.
Dois homens avançam, cada um do seu lado da rua,
O da direita segue uns passos adiante do outro
Como uma patrulha nocturna, vigiando a vila deserta.
O mais certo é serem retardatários, passageiros do último comboio,
regressando a casa no conforto da presença do outro.
We drive slowly along the dark avenue,
Car lamps light our way through the falling rain
Two men walk, one on each side of the street,
The right hand fellow some steps ahead of the other
They look like a night patrol, watching over the deserted town.
They’re just passengers of the last train,
Returning home in the comfort of each other’s presence.
Os faróis do carro abrindo caminho por entre a morrinha que cai.
Dois homens avançam, cada um do seu lado da rua,
O da direita segue uns passos adiante do outro
Como uma patrulha nocturna, vigiando a vila deserta.
O mais certo é serem retardatários, passageiros do último comboio,
regressando a casa no conforto da presença do outro.
We drive slowly along the dark avenue,
Car lamps light our way through the falling rain
Two men walk, one on each side of the street,
The right hand fellow some steps ahead of the other
They look like a night patrol, watching over the deserted town.
They’re just passengers of the last train,
Returning home in the comfort of each other’s presence.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Le rayon vert
No story is more widespread, nor more false, than the “ancient legend” Jules Verne introduces in his 1882 novel Le Rayon-Vert, according to which, one who has seen the Green Ray is incapable of being “deceived in matters of sentiment,” so that “he who has been fortunate enough once to behold it is enabled to see closely into his own heart and to read the thoughts of others.”
Oh, era uma história tão bonita : os puros de coração, no ocaso do dia, tocados pelo raio verde, passarem a poder ver claro para sempre...
A Europa suicida
"Contrariamente a lo que dice el manual progresista al uso, el suicidio de Europa no es la aplicación de un proyecto de extrema derecha. O no sólo. La tierra donde crece son las tensiones y dificultades que sufren sobre todo los más desasistidos: en Calabria hay también una guerra entre pobres. Desde los suburbios franceses lepenizados hasta los parados calabreses que la 'Ndrangheta manipula, la base social más genuina del populismo y de las pestes negras del signo que sea son siempre los menos favorecidos. Luego está el abono que los hace crecer: ese Estado ausente, corrupto y privatizado. Y una lluvia fina mediática hecha de antiprogresismo, incorrección política y comunitarismo occidental disfrazado de universalismo. Al fin lo que tiramos por la borda son los valores genuinamente europeos, las ideas de la Ilustración que han sido hasta ahora la tracción de la modernidad occidental. Por este camino, primero perderemos el alma, pero después lo perderemos todo, Estado de bienestar incluido."
El País, 14 enero, 2010 - Lluís Bassets
La Europa suicida
El País, 14 enero, 2010 - Lluís Bassets
La Europa suicida
Byzantium
Sailing to Byzantium
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
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