see this please

Beautiful

étoiles

Muchachos

Historia para muchachos

Dicen: "Este señor
habla tan sólo de sí mismo.
Pasa -dicen- cegado,
sin ver lo que sucede alrededor.
Va por el mundo como un barco viejo…,
ese señor…Bueno para cortar
con un hacha, y quemarlo, y calentarnos
si es capaz de calor…
ese señor que hablaba de su vida
y nada más…Ese señor…",han dicho.

Probablemente era ya viejo
cuando nací, cerca de un río.
Aunque yo no me acuerdo de ese río.
sino del mar bajo el sol de septiembre.
Sería complicado explicar las razones
por las que yo me hallaba allí
entre las olas y los estudiantes,
estrujando el momento
como quien quiere anclarse
a un trozo hermoso de la realidad.
Un sueño de oro entre las dos sirenas
que interrumpían el trabajo.
Era algo así como nostalgia
lo que me hacía estar allí
hasta mi encuentro con la máquina.

Ese señor que pasa por la vida
metido dentro de sí mismo,
entonces
era cilindrador. ¿Sabéis qué es eso,
vosotros que le habláis a este señor
de realidades? Es posible que haya
entre los libros de la biblioteca
de vuestros padres, uno que os aclare
ciertas palabras; apuntad: palero
moldeador, listero en unas obras,
transportista de leña a domicilio,
comisionista para la venta a plazos
de libros, negro de escritor…Acaso
alguno de los libros que tenéis
en vuestra casa me haya a mí dejado
un porcentaje (un diez por ciento, creo).

No son éstas las únicas palabras.
Hay otras. Por ejemplo: Condenados
por auxilio a la rebelión.
(Creo que ese era el término jurídico.)
Auxilio o adhesión: no estoy seguro.
O uno le fue aplicado
a mi padre, y el otro a mi.
No estoy seguro. Ya ha pasado el tiempo
y él ha muerto. Y han muerto muchas gentes
que estuvieron en una situación
semejante o peor. Y los demás
envejecimos. No hemos muerto,
afortunadamente.

Este señor
oyó una vez llorar a un niño
en el momento de la elevación
en una misa. (Necesitaría
demasiadas palabras
para que comprendierais por qué un hecho
tan aparentemente natural
me parecía irreal entonces, y ahora.
¿Cómo hacerlo sentir?...En cuatro años
no había oído voz de niño.
La de mujer, al otro lado,
desgarrada, voz casi masculina
por el esfuerzo para destacarse
del griterío. No podría
explicarlo. No es cosa de palabras
como estas mías. Solo un gran poeta
podría contagiarnos la emoción:
mis palabras no bastan.) Lloró el niño.
Por las triples vidrieras entró el sol.
El corazón estaba
a punto de romperse hermosamente.
Después, fue un hombre muerto,
y otro hombre, muchos más…
He perdido la cuenta.
En los balcones los dejaban
por la noche, delante de la fuente
de aquel patio interior. Muertos calzados
con alpargatas nuevas, su sudario.
Amanecía y se les despedía
cantando el Dies irae
(ya no recuerdo si el de Verdi,
o es muy probable que el de Mozart).
Este señor apetecía ser
el Desdichado de la tierra,
el más miserable que nadie,
el más solitario que todos.
No se tenía lástima a sí mismo
y solo así sería libre,
sin nadie a quien compadecer…
Y un día volvió al mar. Fueron las olas
a lamerle las manos. "Aquí estás
-le dijeron-de nuevo" Desplegaron
sus colores, olores y sonidos.
Pusieron en sus manos pan de amor.
Las gaviotas bajaron a picarlo.
pero las alas eran alpargatas
en los pies de los muertos. Y la música
del mar era el Dies irae…Sólo un día,
un momento, tendido-la cabeza
junto a un tronco rugoso de sabina-,
olvidó. Fue un momento. Eternidad
que le duró un momento. Se creía
tierra de paz. Y el árbol le nacía
de la frente, y las nubes…
(¿Quién no ha visto,
quién no ha vivido nubes, árbol, mar?...
Será mejor cambiar de tema,
dejar de hablar, aunque necesitaba
deciros esto. La palabra
es de piedra, impermeable a la emoción
lo vuelvo a recordar.)

Lo del mar duró muy poco.
Todo duraba cada vez más poco.
Era lo mismo que un pantano.
Yo me hundía en el fango.
Y cada vez era mi cuerpo
menos libre. Gritaba, respiraba,
enloquecía, enloquecía, enloquecía.
Convocaba mi muerte
a aquellas gentes que yo vi morir.
Y yo escondía la cabeza
para no verlos, y que me dejaran
vivir, morir a gusto.
Y yo escondía la cabeza
bajo un acordeón. Yo le arrancaba
sonidos-lo recuerdo-, y las mujeres
bailaban , y Madama Leontine,
gorda y espiritual, recomendaba
silencio, por si acaso la multaba
la policía…

Ya ha pasado el tiempo
sobre todos nosotros.
Muchos se han liberado ya del tiempo.
Nuestros pequeños heroísmos
adquirieron su dimensión
verdadera. Aquel verdor de luna
de febrero, con nieve, entre vagones,
no es más que una viñeta. Aquella luna
de agosto, sobre el mar y las montañas,
se ha apagado. Es vulgar. Y tantas cosas
que fueron mías, nunca vuestras,
y hoy ni siquiera son ya mías.
Recorrí mi camino repicando
las sonoras campanas, encendiendo
las estrellas –creía en las campanas
y en las estrellas-… Todo fue rompiéndome
el corazón. Y me encontré de pronto
Nel mezzo del camin di nostra vita
(hago la cita para que digáis
que en esta historia existe, por lo menos,
un verso bueno: justo el que no es mío).
Ya no me importan nada
Mis versos ni mi vida.
Lo mismo exactamente que a vosotros.
Versos míos y vida mía, muertos
para vosotros y para mí.
Pero en vosotros, por lo menos, queda
vuestra vida, y en mi sólo momentos
inasibles, recuerdos o proyectos,
Alguna imagen descuajada
de mis años pasados o futuros.
Como ésta que me asalta en el instante
En que estoy escribiendo: un hombre esbelto,
con su cadena de oro en el chaleco.
Habla con alguien. Detrás de él, un fondo
de grúas en el puerto. Y hay un niño
que soy yo. Él es mi padre.
"El niño tiene cuatro años",
acaba de decir.


Jose Hierro

Música

Hoje as noticias da manhã, mostravam um muito entusiasmado músico enaltecendo "o poder milagroso da música". Como diz a noticia da RTP 1, o projecto da Casa da Música do Porto, é levar a música a quem não pode ir até ela, a "Casa vai a casa".

"O objectivo é mostrar aos participantes que a estadia num hospital pode também ser uma experiência positiva e agradável, que lhes permita fomentar a sua auto-estima e melhorar a sua qualidade de vida", diz a Casa da Música em comunicado.

Entre segunda e quarta-feira, as crianças internadas no Serviço de Pediatria do Hospital Pedro Hispano, acompanhadas e apoiadas pelos familiares, terão a oportunidade de escrever canções, compor escrever canções, compor música e aprender a tocar alguns instrumentos de percussão.

No último dia, haverá uma apresentação ao público.

Nos dias 22, 23 e 24 será a vez dos adultos internados no Serviço de Ortopedia poderem participar numa acção de formação semelhante, que culminará também com uma apresentação, no Dia de S. João, 24 de Junho.

Os participantes serão orientados por formadores com experiência nesta área, como Tim Steiner, Samantha Mason, Tom Rainer, David Harrison e pelos formandos do Curso de Formação de Animadores Musicais (promovido pela CdM), Ana Bento , Liliana Abreu, Adalgisa Ponte e Fátima Ponte."

Não pude deixar de pensar como o poder milagroso da música foi tão ineficaz, a conter a loucura do nazismo, como gente herdeira duma das mais apuradas tradições musicais do mundo, se entregou ao mais perverso mal.
Como inclusivamente a música serviu a mise-en-scéne nazi.


"Happy" children of Theresienstadt

"On June 23, 1944, the Nazis permitted the visit by representatives from the Danish Red Cross and the International Red Cross in order to dispel rumors about the extermination camps. The commission included E. Juel-Henningsen, the head physician at the Danish Ministry of Health, and Franz Hvass, the top civil servant at the Danish Foreign Ministry. Dr. Paul Eppstein was instructed by the SS to appear in the role of the mayor of Theresienstadt.
To minimize the appearance of overcrowding in Theresienstadt, the Nazis deported many Jews to Auschwitz. Also deported in these actions were most of the Czechoslovakian workers assigned to 'Operation Embellishment.' It is claimed that they also erected fake shops and cafés to imply that the Jews lived in relative comfort, but ex-residents recall these shops as something different. Friedrich Schlaefrig recalls in an interview with David Boder just after the war ended; "By that time(autumn of 1944), I received a different assignment in the technical service; I have undertaken the management of a quadrant, that is a 'quarter' of the city, and I had my own office with adjoining small service apartment, with my shops nearby—carpenter shop, locksmith [machine] shop, installation [electrical, plumbing] shops" which were all available to the Jewish residents."
The Danes whom the Red Cross visited lived in freshly painted rooms, not more than three in a room. These could possibly have included the homes of the "prominent" Jews of Theresienstadt who were afforded special privileges whereby as little as two people shared a single room. The guests enjoyed the performance of a children's opera, Brundibar, which was written by inmate Hans Krása.
Apparently the Red Cross representatives were easily fooled by the Germans as the tour was conducted by following a pre-determined path designated by a "red line" on a map. The hapless Red Cross apparently didn't attempt to divert from the "official" tour route as led by the Germans who also posed questions to the Jewish residents along the way. If the Red Cross attempted to ask the residents questions directly, they were ignored and not answered. Despite this, the Red Cross still apparently formed a positive impression of the town.
The hoax against the Red Cross was apparently so successful for the Nazis that they went on to make a propaganda film at Theresienstadt. Production of the film began on February 26, 1944. Directed by Jewish prisoner Kurt Gerron (a director, cabaret performer, and actor who appeared with Marlene Dietrich in The Blue Angel), it was meant to show how well the Jews lived under the "benevolent" protection of the Third Reich. Despite this being a German propaganda film that was supposedly distorting the real living conditions in Theresienstadt, Gerron made no attempt to include any subtle or hidden messages in the film that later could have been used to expose its fraudulent nature.
Instead the film, if taken on face value, positively documents the Jews of Theresienstad living a relatively comfortable existence within a thriving cultural centre, functioning successfully during the hardships of WW2. This in itself is a puzzling anomaly considering the circumstances in which the film was purportedly made by Jewish residents amid the often documented desire of the Jewish people as a whole - or individually - to inform the world of their plight and suffering at the hands of the Germans.
After the shooting of the film, most of the cast and even the filmmaker himself, were in fact deported to Auschwitz. Gerron and his wife were executed in the gas chambers on October 28, 1944."

this excerpt from the Wikipedia, nice read The rest is noise, by Alex Ross. I first heard of Theresienstadt, in the writings of W. G. Sebald

Sisters

Jane and Louise Wilson

Broken Time



interview

The heart cannot change

"The heart cannot change

For the heart that has been pierced by Eros' blunt dart cannot be conquered, even if the assailant were the son of Zeus, or he who inspires all sciences and arts, or he who knows harmony and turn it into music, or he who sees what is to come. All this and more is Apollo, the greatest healer of all, and yet unable to heal his own heart, pierced by Eros with the sharp golden point.

The Laurel

So when Daphne saw Apollo coming towards her, she had to escape. And it is said that while Apollo pursued her, she implored to Zeus to disappear from sight. And as her prayers were heard, she was turned into a laurel tree. That was all that remained of her, but Apollo broke a branch from the tree, and placing it on his head declared:

"Since you cannot be my bride, you shall at least be my tree. My hair, my lyre, my quiver shall always be entwined with you, O laurel." (Apollo. Ovid, Metamorphoses 1.556)."

Seen here

I am not done with my changes

The Layers
by Stanley Kunitz

I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.

Moon of Alabama

Liberdade

(falta uma citação de Séneca)

Ai que prazer
não cumprir um dever,
Ter um livro para ler
e não o fazer!
Ler é maçada,
estudar é nada.
O sol doira
sem literatura.
O rio corre, bem ou mal,
sem edição original.
E a brisa, essa,
de tão naturalmente matinal
como tem tempo não tem pressa...

Livros são papéis pintados com tinta.
Estudar é uma coisa em que está indistinta
A distinção entre nada e coisa nenhuma.

Quanto melhor é, quando há bruma,
Esperar por D. Sebastião,
Quer venha ou não!

Grande é a poesia, a bondade e as danças...
Mas o melhor do mundo são as crianças,
Flores, música, o luar, e o sol,que peca
Só quando, em vez de criar, seca.

O mais do que isto
É Jesus Cristo,
Que não sabia nada de finanças
Nem consta que tivesse biblioteca...

Ática, Lisboa Maio de 1970
edição de Luís de Montalvor


Freedom, by Fernando Pessoa, an attempt of translation
(a Séneca quote missing here)

Oh, what a pleasure
not to follow a duty!
To have a book
and not read it!
Reading is boring.
Studying is nothing.
The sun shines without literature.
Rivers run without original editions.
And the breeze, so natural to the morning, has plenty of time, and no rush...

Books are papers painted with ink.
Studying is something that can´t distinguish nihil from nothing.

The best is the mist.
It doesn´t matter if Dom Sebastião will ever come back.

Great is the poetry, goodness, and the dances.
But the best in this world are the children,
Flowers, Music, Moonlight, and the Sun, whose only flaw
is sometimes burning instead of making life bloom.

And more than anything else, Jesus Christ,
who didn´t know anything about finances,
and never owned a library.

RA

SunGod_BY_STACY_REED

Ra (also spelled Ré) is the ancient Egyptian sun god. By the fifth dynasty he became a major deity in ancient Egyptian religion, identified primarily with the mid-day sun, with other deities representing other positions of the sun. Ra changed greatly over time and in one form or another, much later he was said to represent the sun at all times of the day. The meaning of the name is uncertain, but it is thought if not a word for 'sun' it may be a variant of or linked to 'creative'.

Ra was thought to travel on a solar boat called the Mandjet (The Boat of the Millions or, alternatively, the Boat of Millions of Years) in order to protect the sun's fires from the primordial waters of the underworld as it passed through during the night. Ra traveled in the sun boat with various other deities including Set and Mehen who defended against the monsters of the underworld, and Ma'at who guided the boat's course. The monsters included Apep, an enormous serpent who tried to stop the sun boat's journey every night by consuming it. Alternatively, some ancient Egyptians believed that Ra died as the sun would set every night. The Mandjet barque would then turn into the Mesektet barge (the Night-barge) that would carry Ra through the underworld back towards the east in preparation for his rebirth at sunrise. These myths of Ra conceptualized the sunrise as the rebirth of the sun by the Sky goddess Nut, thus attributing the concept of rebirth and renewal to Ra and strengthening his role as a creator god.
from the Wikipedia

I remember to spend a whole night awake, when in the Army, reading about this - could it be Norman Mailer's Ancient evenings ?

Sunday

A soft breeze carried to me the wheezing of passing cars in the motorway
Dogs barking somewhere,
A clear Winter evening was ending,
Now that it's Winter nights comes quickly, I sit in the castle
Looking at the wide plain in front of me, the moonlight over the quiet river,
Millions of tiny lights scintillating in the distance,
Magic in this limpid instant. Calm.

The military had been parading for politicians' sake in the morning,
Sunday clothed civilians, watched cheerfully
All this in praise of a death revolution, like all seem to be in now,
The daily echoed past failures, bickered about present ones.
In the afternoon we had the usual Sports and so a lovely Sunday went by.

My dogs contaminated by my immobility,
Come sit by me,
Without looking I caress their heads and chests.
We could stay there longer,
Thoughts going light as clouds over the river…
After a little while I get up to fix dinner. Home.

--------

Uma brisa suave trazia o ruído dos carros na autoestrada
e o ladrar de cães ao longe,
Uma clara tarde de domingo terminava,
Agora no Inverno a noite cai cedo, eu sentado no castelo
Olhava a larga planicie defronte, o luar sobre o rio manso,
Milhões de pequenas luzes cintilavam ao meu redor,
Magia no límpido instante. Calma.

Os militares logo pela manhã marcharam para os politicos,
Os curiosos engalanados, não perderam pitada
Evocava-se uma revolução morta, como parecem todas agora,
O jornal do dia ecoava os insucessos passados, amargava dos presentes.
Pela tarde os desportos habituais e assim passou um belo domingo.

Os meus cães contagiados pela minha imobilidade,
Vieram sentar-se junto a mim,
Distraidamente acariciei-lhes as cabeças e os peitos.
Podíamos ter ficado ali um bom bocado mais,
Os pensamentos a vogar leves, como as nuvens sobre o rio...
Passado um pouco levantei-me e fui tratar do jantar. Casa.

Merbabies

People !

Solace

Solace
Main Entry: 1so·lace
Pronunciation: \ˈsä-ləs also ˈsō-\
Function: transitive verb
Inflected Form(s): so·laced; so·lac·ing
Date: 13th century
1 : to give solace to : console
2 a : to make cheerful b : amuse
3 : allay, soothe
— so·lace·ment \-mənt\ noun
— so·lac·er noun


Mark Rothko, Center Tryptich for Rothko Chapel, 1966, Houston

Home

HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS

adamant

adamant
2 entries found.
1adamant (noun)
2adamant (adjective)
Main Entry: 1ad·a·mant
Pronunciation: \ˈa-də-mənt, -ˌmant\
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French, from Latin adamant-, adamas hardest metal, diamond, from Greek
Date: 14th century
1 : a stone (as a diamond) formerly believed to be of impenetrable hardness
2 : an unbreakable or extremely hard substance

21st century

Confusion will be my epitaph

“An artist’s only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and on his own terms, not anyone else’s.”
~J.D Salinger

Haiti

Haiti

First come slavery and its hardships,
Rage and dictators followed suit,
Strong winds and heavy rains, from time to time
To undo the little that was done.
Then a mighty quake.

You smile at adversity, you pray the right prayers
Sacrifice what’s to sacrifice,
You try rage, yes rage is also good
It cleanses you, makes you look in command for a little while
But all is lost in face of things…

I think about it over and over,
And get no further than this :

Oh when the saints go marching in
When the saints go marching in
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in

And when the sun refuse to shine
And when the sun refuse to shine
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in…

Black is beautiful