Sunday night in New York; I hear the the sound of cars on the street, crushing and splattering snow and mud with their wheels. Meanwhile -- right now! I say -- our tender children continue to kill and die in Iraq.
I swallow my anguish and let the Dirty Old Man speak for me:
a great white light dawns across the
continent
as we fawn over our failed traditions,
often kill to preserve them
or sometimes just kill to kill.
it doesn't seem to matter: the answers dangle just
out of reach,
out of hand, out of mind.
Charles Bukowsky
__________________________
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Saturday, November 24, 2007
My Favorite Words 16: On Poetry
An attractive idea is that the test of poetry should be the same as Henry James's dictum for the novel, that it be interesting.
Jim Harrison
__________________________
Jim Harrison
__________________________
Sunday, November 4, 2007
My Favorite Words 15: (in)communication
I know that you believe you understand what you think I said, but I am not sure you realize that what you heard is not what I meant.
Anonymous
__________________________
Anonymous
__________________________
Saturday, October 6, 2007
My Favorite Words 14: What do you know!
Which is Which? / Who is Who?
The trouble with the world is not that people know too little,
but that they know so many things that aren't true.*
Mark Twain
Pseudonym of Samuel Langhorne Clemens [1835-1910]
* The quotation is most likely apocryphal,
or it paraphrases a saying (or some of the
sayings) by Josh Billings, for instance:
It is better to know nothing than to know what ain't so.
Josh Billings
Pseudonym of Henry Wheeler Shaw [1818-1885]
__________________________
Men say they know many things;
But lo! they have taken wings,
The arts and sciences,
And a thousand appliances;
The wind that blows
Is all that any body knows.
Henry David Thoreau
__________________________
The trouble with the world is not that people know too little,
but that they know so many things that aren't true.*
Mark Twain
Pseudonym of Samuel Langhorne Clemens [1835-1910]
* The quotation is most likely apocryphal,
or it paraphrases a saying (or some of the
sayings) by Josh Billings, for instance:
It is better to know nothing than to know what ain't so.
Josh Billings
Pseudonym of Henry Wheeler Shaw [1818-1885]
__________________________
Men say they know many things;
But lo! they have taken wings,
The arts and sciences,
And a thousand appliances;
The wind that blows
Is all that any body knows.
Henry David Thoreau
__________________________
Friday, October 5, 2007
That Thing of the Poets 7: MADraft
Indian Summer in New York. Getting dressed to go for a run (outside, Central Park shinning brightly under a 28ºC-degree unseasonal heat), I hear a certain writer talk on the NPR radio station. He tells me of his relationship with his father, with his country and the world, with his profession(s), etc. His words make me postpone the run and sit down to, rushing, engage that conversation, which translates into this insane work in progress:
MADraft
Pardon, me, please.
I have heard it;
You just said it:
“I am an urban animal
and I need that rush.”
You called Istanbul
“The Ceaseless Roar”, but
Next
You said the same
Of The City,
--yours, and mine--
(Our city).
You, the transcendental son
Of an absentee-father,
Your Name is Red.
That dad, semi-goner dad,
Who, filling out
With savage ink
His notebooks,
Filled up
With acrid smoke
--Gauloises's smoke--
The humid rooms
Of cheap hotels.
Craving for it
Waiting for it,
Aimlessly roamed
The darkest alleys
Of labyrinthine
Existentialism
Dans Le fou Marais--
Of gay Paris.
Yes, it was him who
Brought up the child
Who you would be.
Periodically fatherless
Istanbulean urchin
Quite early knew
You would not go
And become the painter.
No, no. No.
That one, you would not be...
Nevermind me.
Thousand-and-one
Cities and books,
Mirrors your brow.
Sometimes I think:
I would I walked
Your threaded paths
Across that bridge
America struggles
--so rough and crude--
To try and chow
To smithereens.
Nights of the crescent moon
Evenings of Montparnasse
Let me lend you for a single minute
The dawn Porteño so full of dew
That mists my body until it blooms.
A few blocks from
A bookstuffedshack
I've called "home,"
The Turk-Professor,
Before the staring
Columbia eyes,
Speaks; (the ears, avid),
And feeds them gracious
Abundant Lit.
Nevermind me.
I think you think
The bridge a myth
Cannot be broken,
But,
Noble man,
Master,
Nobel man
Of many a word:
"Lugones era.."
Jorge Luis Borges
Once he did say.
This way he said it:
"Érase-una-vez-un-hombre-que-sabía-todas-las-palabras."
You do too, I reckon.
But, I know, my poet,
Storyteller,
Your apartment's window
On the other side
Gazes at Bosphorus
And your difficult
Forceful
Balance-d act
between two worlds
Brings you to our
--yours and mine--
New York.
Was it, perhaps,
your father’s
Parisian haven
Promised heaven
--A realm so laden--
Where reigns, solemnly,
A Golden Stork?
(The native children
Of my native land
[Still?] believe
In domes above
The enlightened city
Nests the rare bird
Who those children brought)
Nevermind me.
Pushed-away castaways
Listening to borrowed voices;
Broken melodies/
Shakesperean noises/
The likes of those
We emulate.
Erudite parrots,
Of borrowed signage
Are we mad prophets
Howling a desert
Of stolen accents
From Northern winds.
Constantinople <--> Santa María del Buen Aire = New Amsterdam
(Yes, those good old names)
You, Noble Nobel;
Je, le minuscule écrivain;
Peut être nous, étrangeres unconnus.
Nostos draws us:
Strangeman and madman
Trying and straining
To see as the landfall
This strenuous Land.
Yet we galope the world
Astride on a pen
(Once mightier than the sword
As said Sir Lytton, the Lord)
Missing the Dead Poets
Or...
Running away from them all.
Meeting each other
If there is a zenith:
For you, the minarets;
For me, an obelisk.
(None a relationship
With the rather ancient,
Wondrous Egypt).
Soon, (who knows?)
Could you well be
A United European
Walking the bridge
On your seven-league legs.
I, always in my memory
Ambling that desolate land
Where slaps Aeolus
-- we call it Pampero--
furious my face with his nasty blows.
Nevermind me.
Undisturbed
--He said.
Among the perennial silence
Of blank pages and open books,
--He said:
"We have no longer
The sacred animals
For all the cows
Have gone already
-As it has gone--
Long, away, long
Dear dignity"
Or so he said,
Roberto Bolaño,
My dearest neighbor,
Of many an año
Who, very sadly,
Ya went away.
--He said:
"Only nocturnal and
Roaming Rabbits
We harbor now."
Then, at last,
Do mind me,
I beg you,
And please
Do tell me,
Wise Racconteur:
How do I do it?
Where do I meet you
--Ominous Writer--
Orhan Pamuk?
Hugo Pezzini
(this one is mine)
In New York at about noon.
* The (fake) quotations on cows and rabbits are based on Roberto Bolaño's short-story "The Insufferable Gaucho".
__________________________
MADraft
Pardon, me, please.
I have heard it;
You just said it:
“I am an urban animal
and I need that rush.”
You called Istanbul
“The Ceaseless Roar”, but
Next
You said the same
Of The City,
--yours, and mine--
(Our city).
You, the transcendental son
Of an absentee-father,
Your Name is Red.
That dad, semi-goner dad,
Who, filling out
With savage ink
His notebooks,
Filled up
With acrid smoke
--Gauloises's smoke--
The humid rooms
Of cheap hotels.
Craving for it
Waiting for it,
Aimlessly roamed
The darkest alleys
Of labyrinthine
Existentialism
Dans Le fou Marais--
Of gay Paris.
Yes, it was him who
Brought up the child
Who you would be.
Periodically fatherless
Istanbulean urchin
Quite early knew
You would not go
And become the painter.
No, no. No.
That one, you would not be...
Nevermind me.
Thousand-and-one
Cities and books,
Mirrors your brow.
Sometimes I think:
I would I walked
Your threaded paths
Across that bridge
America struggles
--so rough and crude--
To try and chow
To smithereens.
Nights of the crescent moon
Evenings of Montparnasse
Let me lend you for a single minute
The dawn Porteño so full of dew
That mists my body until it blooms.
A few blocks from
A bookstuffedshack
I've called "home,"
The Turk-Professor,
Before the staring
Columbia eyes,
Speaks; (the ears, avid),
And feeds them gracious
Abundant Lit.
Nevermind me.
I think you think
The bridge a myth
Cannot be broken,
But,
Noble man,
Master,
Nobel man
Of many a word:
"Lugones era.."
Jorge Luis Borges
Once he did say.
This way he said it:
"Érase-una-vez-un-hombre-que-sabía-todas-las-palabras."
You do too, I reckon.
But, I know, my poet,
Storyteller,
Your apartment's window
On the other side
Gazes at Bosphorus
And your difficult
Forceful
Balance-d act
between two worlds
Brings you to our
--yours and mine--
New York.
Was it, perhaps,
your father’s
Parisian haven
Promised heaven
--A realm so laden--
Where reigns, solemnly,
A Golden Stork?
(The native children
Of my native land
[Still?] believe
In domes above
The enlightened city
Nests the rare bird
Who those children brought)
Nevermind me.
Pushed-away castaways
Listening to borrowed voices;
Broken melodies/
Shakesperean noises/
The likes of those
We emulate.
Erudite parrots,
Of borrowed signage
Are we mad prophets
Howling a desert
Of stolen accents
From Northern winds.
Constantinople <--> Santa María del Buen Aire = New Amsterdam
(Yes, those good old names)
You, Noble Nobel;
Je, le minuscule écrivain;
Peut être nous, étrangeres unconnus.
Nostos draws us:
Strangeman and madman
Trying and straining
To see as the landfall
This strenuous Land.
Yet we galope the world
Astride on a pen
(Once mightier than the sword
As said Sir Lytton, the Lord)
Missing the Dead Poets
Or...
Running away from them all.
Meeting each other
If there is a zenith:
For you, the minarets;
For me, an obelisk.
(None a relationship
With the rather ancient,
Wondrous Egypt).
Soon, (who knows?)
Could you well be
A United European
Walking the bridge
On your seven-league legs.
I, always in my memory
Ambling that desolate land
Where slaps Aeolus
-- we call it Pampero--
furious my face with his nasty blows.
Nevermind me.
Undisturbed
--He said.
Among the perennial silence
Of blank pages and open books,
--He said:
"We have no longer
The sacred animals
For all the cows
Have gone already
-As it has gone--
Long, away, long
Dear dignity"
Or so he said,
Roberto Bolaño,
My dearest neighbor,
Of many an año
Who, very sadly,
Ya went away.
--He said:
"Only nocturnal and
Roaming Rabbits
We harbor now."
Then, at last,
Do mind me,
I beg you,
And please
Do tell me,
Wise Racconteur:
How do I do it?
Where do I meet you
--Ominous Writer--
Orhan Pamuk?
Hugo Pezzini
(this one is mine)
In New York at about noon.
* The (fake) quotations on cows and rabbits are based on Roberto Bolaño's short-story "The Insufferable Gaucho".
__________________________
Monday, July 30, 2007
Obituarium: Deadly Poet
Igmar Bergman died last night.
From the New York Times (July 30 2007):
Once, when asked by the critic Andrew Sarris why he did what he did, Mr. Bergman told the story of the rebuilding of Chartres Cathedral in the Middle Ages by thousands of anonymous artisans.
“I want to be one of the artists of the cathedral that rises on the plain,” he said. “I want to occupy myself by carving out of stone the head of a dragon, an angel or a demon, or perhaps a saint; it doesn’t matter; I will find the same joy in any case. Whether I am a believer or an unbeliever, Christian or pagan, I work with all the world to build a cathedral because I am artist and artisan, and because I have learned to draw faces, limbs, and bodies out of stone. I will never worry about the judgment of posterity or of my contemporaries; my name is carved nowhere and will disappear with me. But a little part of myself will survive in the anonymous and triumphant totality. A dragon or a demon, or perhaps a saint, it doesn’t matter!”
---------------------------------- requiescat in pace, Igmar. ----------
From the New York Times (July 30 2007):
Once, when asked by the critic Andrew Sarris why he did what he did, Mr. Bergman told the story of the rebuilding of Chartres Cathedral in the Middle Ages by thousands of anonymous artisans.
“I want to be one of the artists of the cathedral that rises on the plain,” he said. “I want to occupy myself by carving out of stone the head of a dragon, an angel or a demon, or perhaps a saint; it doesn’t matter; I will find the same joy in any case. Whether I am a believer or an unbeliever, Christian or pagan, I work with all the world to build a cathedral because I am artist and artisan, and because I have learned to draw faces, limbs, and bodies out of stone. I will never worry about the judgment of posterity or of my contemporaries; my name is carved nowhere and will disappear with me. But a little part of myself will survive in the anonymous and triumphant totality. A dragon or a demon, or perhaps a saint, it doesn’t matter!”
---------------------------------- requiescat in pace, Igmar. ----------
Monday, July 23, 2007
My Favorite Words 13: On Creation, Construction, The Arts.
The ultimate accomplishment in writing, composing, lyric writing, poetry, fiction, painting… in my humble estimation… is that the audience reads or hears or sees and not only suspends disbelief but, transcendently is taken up into the work or its performance.
"Jeenious"
__________________________
"Jeenious"
__________________________
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
My Favorite Words 12: Politics 2
While there is a lower class, I am in it;
while there is a criminal element, I am of it;
while there is a soul in prison, I am not free.
Eugene Debs
__________________________
while there is a criminal element, I am of it;
while there is a soul in prison, I am not free.
Eugene Debs
__________________________
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
My Favorite Words 11: Hope, faith, belief. God
The angel said to me, “All that you have written is sure and will come true: the Lord God who inspires the prophets has sent his angel to reveal to his servants ‘what is soon to take place.’ ”
St. John The Divine
__________________________
O God, if I knew how you wish to be worshiped I would so worship you: but I do not know.
Zayd ibn Amr
__________________________
I do not distinguish between hope and belief.
Laurence Thornton
__________________________
I don't believe in God, but I miss Him.
Julian Barnes
__________________________
St. John The Divine
__________________________
O God, if I knew how you wish to be worshiped I would so worship you: but I do not know.
Zayd ibn Amr
__________________________
I do not distinguish between hope and belief.
Laurence Thornton
__________________________
I don't believe in God, but I miss Him.
Julian Barnes
__________________________
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
That Thing of the Poets 5: On the Seas
MARES DEL SUR
Mares del sur
siluetas que se desperezan al ocaso.
Cuerpos de arena
que azota la tormenta.
Caballo cimarrón, el viento.
Eterna contradicción de la marea
que se agita contra la escollera.
Hielo en los tobillos...
capricho de los peces
que se contonean en el fondo,
trompo...
giros al viento de cabellos-flamas.
Viento armonioso que se descuelga
en los atardeceres.
Rueda, cañón, marioneta
opaca de payasos.
El fuerte se divisa
sobre las rocas de Cabo Corrientes...
La torre, circunscripta
por el vuelo de gaviotas.
Niños, inventando pasadizos
en el agua
para que la marea
no se lleve la infancia...
Desnudo, quieto, casi congelado
cuerpo de mujer,
abrazado en esa tarde
en que el sabor salobre de la boca
recorría su contorno en el crepúsculo.
Estatua de luz...
embarcación que se agita
sobre el movimiento,
y otra vez el viento...
y la carrera loca hacia la torre.
Desde allí, divisábamos la tarde
larga como una sombra,
y el sonido de la arena
arrasada por el torbellino.
Huellas de pies
que duran sólo aquel instante
en que otra ola
los cancela ahora.
Mareo en las pupilas sorprendidas
de una niña...
Inmensidad del movimiento
irremediable, (que no para)
que amenaza con un vacío
bajo el cuerpo.
Destierro...
impedido por dos fuertes brazos
que amarran,
que protegen,
que sostienen.
Y finalmente, la noche
intrusa sobre la escollera
a donde nos asomábamos
para contemplarla.
Él, distante, indeciso y
loco
como un hechizo
que no cesa de romperse,
como un paisaje
que nunca se ha mirado,
como una vastedad
que vela el sueño
se deja contemplar
equidistante.
Astro conmovido
que pincela la espuma;
música de las ráfagas
que azotan con la arena.
Oscuro camino de Alfonsina
emigrando del dolor
y del olvido.
Una luz que se prende
y que se apaga
nos hace señas desde la otra orilla...
desandar entonces la pendiente
por las piedras.
Rasguños en las rodillas,
pequeños latigazos del salitre
que se cuela junto con el agua .
Decisión de aguardar aquella nave.
Luego... en el interior de la cabaña,
estallaba, de pronto
el silencio.
Silvia Pezzini
__________________________
Mares del sur
siluetas que se desperezan al ocaso.
Cuerpos de arena
que azota la tormenta.
Caballo cimarrón, el viento.
Eterna contradicción de la marea
que se agita contra la escollera.
Hielo en los tobillos...
capricho de los peces
que se contonean en el fondo,
trompo...
giros al viento de cabellos-flamas.
Viento armonioso que se descuelga
en los atardeceres.
Rueda, cañón, marioneta
opaca de payasos.
El fuerte se divisa
sobre las rocas de Cabo Corrientes...
La torre, circunscripta
por el vuelo de gaviotas.
Niños, inventando pasadizos
en el agua
para que la marea
no se lleve la infancia...
Desnudo, quieto, casi congelado
cuerpo de mujer,
abrazado en esa tarde
en que el sabor salobre de la boca
recorría su contorno en el crepúsculo.
Estatua de luz...
embarcación que se agita
sobre el movimiento,
y otra vez el viento...
y la carrera loca hacia la torre.
Desde allí, divisábamos la tarde
larga como una sombra,
y el sonido de la arena
arrasada por el torbellino.
Huellas de pies
que duran sólo aquel instante
en que otra ola
los cancela ahora.
Mareo en las pupilas sorprendidas
de una niña...
Inmensidad del movimiento
irremediable, (que no para)
que amenaza con un vacío
bajo el cuerpo.
Destierro...
impedido por dos fuertes brazos
que amarran,
que protegen,
que sostienen.
Y finalmente, la noche
intrusa sobre la escollera
a donde nos asomábamos
para contemplarla.
Él, distante, indeciso y
loco
como un hechizo
que no cesa de romperse,
como un paisaje
que nunca se ha mirado,
como una vastedad
que vela el sueño
se deja contemplar
equidistante.
Astro conmovido
que pincela la espuma;
música de las ráfagas
que azotan con la arena.
Oscuro camino de Alfonsina
emigrando del dolor
y del olvido.
Una luz que se prende
y que se apaga
nos hace señas desde la otra orilla...
desandar entonces la pendiente
por las piedras.
Rasguños en las rodillas,
pequeños latigazos del salitre
que se cuela junto con el agua .
Decisión de aguardar aquella nave.
Luego... en el interior de la cabaña,
estallaba, de pronto
el silencio.
Silvia Pezzini
__________________________
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
My Favorite Words 10: On Art
Todo parte de cierta confianza, el cine y el arte en general tienen que partir de cierta confianza subyacente que tiene que existir porque si no, no puedes hacer nada, es casi instintivo, es una especie de creencia de que lo que uno está haciendo va a ser algo, de que todo eso se convertirá en una narración.
Martin Rejtman
__________________________
Martin Rejtman
__________________________
Monday, June 18, 2007
My Favorite Words 9: Politics
My Job Is to Comfort the Disturbed and Disturb the Comfortable
A bumper sticker
__________________________
For if you kill me you will not easily find a successor to me, who, if I may use such a ludicrous figure of speech, am a sort of gadfly, given to the state by God; and the state is a great and noble steed who is tardy in his motions owing to his very size, and requires to be stirred into life. I am that gadfly which God has attached to the state, and all day long and in all places am always fastening upon you, arousing and persuading and reproaching you. You will not easily find another like me, and therefore I would advise you to spare me. I dare say that you may feel out of temper (like a person who is suddenly awakened from sleep), and you think that you might easily strike me dead as Anytus advises, and then you would sleep on for the remainder of your lives, unless God in his care of you sent you another gadfly.
Socrates (according to Plato´s Apology)
__________________________
A bumper sticker
__________________________
For if you kill me you will not easily find a successor to me, who, if I may use such a ludicrous figure of speech, am a sort of gadfly, given to the state by God; and the state is a great and noble steed who is tardy in his motions owing to his very size, and requires to be stirred into life. I am that gadfly which God has attached to the state, and all day long and in all places am always fastening upon you, arousing and persuading and reproaching you. You will not easily find another like me, and therefore I would advise you to spare me. I dare say that you may feel out of temper (like a person who is suddenly awakened from sleep), and you think that you might easily strike me dead as Anytus advises, and then you would sleep on for the remainder of your lives, unless God in his care of you sent you another gadfly.
Socrates (according to Plato´s Apology)
__________________________
Friday, June 1, 2007
That Thing of the Poets 4: Buenos Aires
I fly to Buenos Aires tomorrow, so here it goes an Argentinean poet very dear to my heart:
Infancia
Territorio de juegos
rambla del Hermitage
infancia...
Pasadizo al otro lado del espejo.
Islas Canarias
en la esquina de mi casa.
Mar de artificio,
disfraz, hermano...
(madre joven), cometa...
Y yo, princesa de esos juegos.
Perdidos en la bruma
de un puerto amarillento,
armábamos
castillos de palabras y sueños.
Mar de utilería,
(en confrontación
con nuevas playas).
Territorio de olvido
el hoy...
la voz y la añoranza.
Si desde un "piedra libre"
atisbo en la distancia
esa coronación en reinos
que inventábamos...
desempaño el cristal
de la lejanía...
Verano que pasó
la vida.
Silvia Pezzini
__________________________
Infancia
Territorio de juegos
rambla del Hermitage
infancia...
Pasadizo al otro lado del espejo.
Islas Canarias
en la esquina de mi casa.
Mar de artificio,
disfraz, hermano...
(madre joven), cometa...
Y yo, princesa de esos juegos.
Perdidos en la bruma
de un puerto amarillento,
armábamos
castillos de palabras y sueños.
Mar de utilería,
(en confrontación
con nuevas playas).
Territorio de olvido
el hoy...
la voz y la añoranza.
Si desde un "piedra libre"
atisbo en la distancia
esa coronación en reinos
que inventábamos...
desempaño el cristal
de la lejanía...
Verano que pasó
la vida.
Silvia Pezzini
__________________________
My Favorite Words 8: Madness and Sanity
The insane view of life has much to be said for it--perhaps it's the sane one after all: and we, the sad sober respectable citizens really rave every moment of our lives and deserve to be shut up perpetually.
Virginia Woolf
__________________________
Virginia Woolf
__________________________
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
My Favorite Words 7: At Sea
In all the devious tracing the course of a sailing ship
leaves upon the white paper of a chart
she is always aiming for that one little spot
- maybe a small island in the ocean,
a single headland upon the long coast of a continent,
a light-house on a bluff,
or simply the peaked form
of a mountain like an ant heap
afloat upon the waters.
But if you have sighted it on the expected bearing,
then the landfall is good.
Joseph Conrad
__________________________
Perdidos en la bruma
de un puerto amarillento,
armábamos
castillos de palabras y sueños.
Silvia Pezzini
__________________________
Just as in a stormy sea, unbounded in every direction, rising and falling with howling mountainous waves, a sailor sits in a boat and trusts his frail barque.
Friedrich Nietzsche
__________________________
leaves upon the white paper of a chart
she is always aiming for that one little spot
- maybe a small island in the ocean,
a single headland upon the long coast of a continent,
a light-house on a bluff,
or simply the peaked form
of a mountain like an ant heap
afloat upon the waters.
But if you have sighted it on the expected bearing,
then the landfall is good.
Joseph Conrad
__________________________
Perdidos en la bruma
de un puerto amarillento,
armábamos
castillos de palabras y sueños.
Silvia Pezzini
__________________________
Just as in a stormy sea, unbounded in every direction, rising and falling with howling mountainous waves, a sailor sits in a boat and trusts his frail barque.
Friedrich Nietzsche
__________________________
Friday, May 25, 2007
My Favorite Words 6: The Machine
Never mind the machinery. Remember the men. The men make the machines, and they make their own tragedies too.
Harvey Swados.
__________________________
Man created the machine.
A machine does not feel love, hate or fear; it does not suffer from ulcers, heart attacks or emotional disturbances.
Perhaps man's only chance of survival is to become a machine.
Some men have succeeded.
A machine who passes for a man often rules societies--a dictator is a power machine in his country. A dedicated artist can turn into a talent machine.
Sometimes this evolution occurs without the man realizing it.
Jacqueline Susan
__________________________
La máquina acosa a los jóvenes: Los encierra, tortura, mata. Ellos son la prueba viva de su impotencia. Los expulsa: Los vende, carne humana, brazos baratos, al extranjero.
La máquina, estéril, odia todo lo que crece y se mueve. Sólo es capaz de multiplicar las prisiones y los cementerios.
No puede producir otra cosa que presos y cadáveres, espías y policías, mendigos y desterrados.
Ser joven es un delito. La realidad comete ese delito todos los días, a la hora de la alborada; y también la historia, que cada mañana nace de nuevo.
Por eso la realidad y la historia están prohibidas.
Eduardo Galeano
__________________________
Flashing lights, rattling scoreboard - there was a voluptuous Amazon on the painted display above, which announced FIRE QUEEN in gaudy fairground calligraphy. The boy's beatific wide eyes flickered as the tumblers clicked and the numbers rolled. Trying for the bonus ball. More than a game of chance - not the fruit machine or the one-armed bandit, there's no solid currency to be gained, only the pleasure of winning. A rarefied skill that could only be developed in the inverse work ethic of Playland. An industrial trade of sorts, a mystery if you like. Like all skilled work it permits the human to imagine that he is working the machine, not the other way around.
Jake Arnott
__________________________
Harvey Swados.
__________________________
Man created the machine.
A machine does not feel love, hate or fear; it does not suffer from ulcers, heart attacks or emotional disturbances.
Perhaps man's only chance of survival is to become a machine.
Some men have succeeded.
A machine who passes for a man often rules societies--a dictator is a power machine in his country. A dedicated artist can turn into a talent machine.
Sometimes this evolution occurs without the man realizing it.
Jacqueline Susan
__________________________
La máquina acosa a los jóvenes: Los encierra, tortura, mata. Ellos son la prueba viva de su impotencia. Los expulsa: Los vende, carne humana, brazos baratos, al extranjero.
La máquina, estéril, odia todo lo que crece y se mueve. Sólo es capaz de multiplicar las prisiones y los cementerios.
No puede producir otra cosa que presos y cadáveres, espías y policías, mendigos y desterrados.
Ser joven es un delito. La realidad comete ese delito todos los días, a la hora de la alborada; y también la historia, que cada mañana nace de nuevo.
Por eso la realidad y la historia están prohibidas.
Eduardo Galeano
__________________________
Flashing lights, rattling scoreboard - there was a voluptuous Amazon on the painted display above, which announced FIRE QUEEN in gaudy fairground calligraphy. The boy's beatific wide eyes flickered as the tumblers clicked and the numbers rolled. Trying for the bonus ball. More than a game of chance - not the fruit machine or the one-armed bandit, there's no solid currency to be gained, only the pleasure of winning. A rarefied skill that could only be developed in the inverse work ethic of Playland. An industrial trade of sorts, a mystery if you like. Like all skilled work it permits the human to imagine that he is working the machine, not the other way around.
Jake Arnott
__________________________
Saturday, May 12, 2007
That Thing of the Poets 3: Absence
Enquanto a chuva bate forte no telhado
os carros transitam apressadamente pelas avenidas;
Pessoas se encontram nos cruzamentos/
num vai e vem do verde do sinal;
mendigos tentando um abrigo da chuva
aos transeuntes pedem um trocado qualquer;
as lojas fechando/
deixando à mostra apenas as vitrines;
um homem faz sinal pro taxi.
É quase madrugada;
percorro todas as ruas
e não encontro você.
Consuelo Moreira
__________________________
os carros transitam apressadamente pelas avenidas;
Pessoas se encontram nos cruzamentos/
num vai e vem do verde do sinal;
mendigos tentando um abrigo da chuva
aos transeuntes pedem um trocado qualquer;
as lojas fechando/
deixando à mostra apenas as vitrines;
um homem faz sinal pro taxi.
É quase madrugada;
percorro todas as ruas
e não encontro você.
Consuelo Moreira
__________________________
My Favorite Words 5: Encountered Viewpoints
All a man ever really thinks would go on a half sheet of note paper.
The rest is just elaboration.
Ezra Pound
__________________________
It is worthwhile writing down everything
Dr. Johnson (paraphrase)
__________________________
The rest is just elaboration.
Ezra Pound
__________________________
It is worthwhile writing down everything
Dr. Johnson (paraphrase)
__________________________
My Favorite Words 4: Existentialist
Aujourd’hui, maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas.
Albert Camus
__________________________
Albert Camus
__________________________
My Favorite Words 3: Grafittiero
The art world is the biggest joke going. It’s a rest home for the overprivileged, the pretentious, and the weak.
Banksy
__________________________
Banksy
__________________________
That Thing of the Poets 2
Reminder of a Life
If I were told:
By evening you will die
so what will you do until then?
I would look at my wristwatch,
I ‘d drink a glass of juice,
bite an apple,
contemplate at length an ant that has found its food,
then look at my wristwatch.
There’d be time left to shave my beard
and dive in a bath, obsess:
”There must be an adornment for writing,
so let it be a blue garment.”
I’d sit until noon alive at my desk
but wouldn’t see the trace of color in the words,
white, white, white…
I’d prepare my last lunch,
pour wine in two glasses: one for me
and one for the one who will come without appointment,
then I’d take a nap between two dreams.
But my snoring would wake me…
so I’d look at my wristwatch: and there’d be time left for reading.
I’d read a chapter in Dante and half of a mu’allaqah
and see how my life goes from me
to the others, but I wouldn’t ask who
would fill what’s missing in it.
That’s it’ then?
That’s it, that’s it.
Then what?
Then I’d comb my hair and throw away the poem…
this poem, in the trash,
and put on the latest fashion in Italian shirts,
parade myself in an entourage of Spanish violins,
and walk to the grave!
Mahmoud Darwish
Translated, from the Arabic, by Fady Joudah.
__________________
If I were told:
By evening you will die
so what will you do until then?
I would look at my wristwatch,
I ‘d drink a glass of juice,
bite an apple,
contemplate at length an ant that has found its food,
then look at my wristwatch.
There’d be time left to shave my beard
and dive in a bath, obsess:
”There must be an adornment for writing,
so let it be a blue garment.”
I’d sit until noon alive at my desk
but wouldn’t see the trace of color in the words,
white, white, white…
I’d prepare my last lunch,
pour wine in two glasses: one for me
and one for the one who will come without appointment,
then I’d take a nap between two dreams.
But my snoring would wake me…
so I’d look at my wristwatch: and there’d be time left for reading.
I’d read a chapter in Dante and half of a mu’allaqah
and see how my life goes from me
to the others, but I wouldn’t ask who
would fill what’s missing in it.
That’s it’ then?
That’s it, that’s it.
Then what?
Then I’d comb my hair and throw away the poem…
this poem, in the trash,
and put on the latest fashion in Italian shirts,
parade myself in an entourage of Spanish violins,
and walk to the grave!
Mahmoud Darwish
Translated, from the Arabic, by Fady Joudah.
__________________
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Obituarium: The Last From the Sixties?
Kurt Vonnegut died last night; he wrote:
We had forgotten that wars were fought by babies.
When I saw those freshly shaved faces, it was a shock.
My God, my God -- I said to myself, "It's the Children's Crusade."
__________________________
When the last living thing
has died on account of us,
how poetical it would be
if Earth could say,
in a voice floating up
perhaps
from the floor
of the Grand Canyon,
"It is done."
People did not like it here.
----------------------------------requiescat in pace, Kurt.----------
We had forgotten that wars were fought by babies.
When I saw those freshly shaved faces, it was a shock.
My God, my God -- I said to myself, "It's the Children's Crusade."
__________________________
When the last living thing
has died on account of us,
how poetical it would be
if Earth could say,
in a voice floating up
perhaps
from the floor
of the Grand Canyon,
"It is done."
People did not like it here.
----------------------------------requiescat in pace, Kurt.----------
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
My favorite words 1: Miscelanea
First Fig
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night:
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends-
It gives a lovely light!
Edna St. Vincent Millay.
__________________________
L'art c'est ce qui rend la vie plus intéressante que l'art.
Gerard Fromanger
__________________________
"We are like tourists with guns."
(Anonymous USA National Guardsman; in Afghanistan)
__________________________
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked . . . angelhead hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dinamo in the machinery of night.
Allen Ginsberg
__________________________
The artist must make posterity believe he never lived.
Gustav Flaubert
__________________________
The intention of the historical avant-garde movements was defined as the destruction of art as an institution set off from the praxis of art.
Peter Burger
__________________________
Everything that isn't autobiographical is plagiarism.
Pedro Almodovar
__________________________
A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than for other people.
Thomas Mann
__________________________
Everything has been said before, but since nobody listens we have to keep going back and beginning all over again.
Andre Gide
__________________________
People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles.
Bret Easton Ellis
__________________________
If we knew what we were doing, we wouldn't call it research, now, would we?
Albert Einstein
__________________________
You just have to go on when it is worst and most helpless.
There is only one thing to do with a novel and that is go straight on through the end of the damn thing.
Ernest Hemingway
__________________________
Nenhum escritor gosta realmente de escrever.
Eu gosto de beber vinho e de amar: na minha idade eu não devería perder tempo com outras coisas, mas não consigo parar de escrever.
É uma doença.
Rubem Fonseca
__________________________
A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving.
Lao Tzu
__________________________
One writes because one does not know what one has to say, to try to find out what it is.
J. F. Lyotard
__________________________
If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stomping on a human face - forever.
George Orwell
__________________________
You can't think your way to write action.
You can only act your way to write thinking.
David Milch
__________________________
I felt that blank incapability of invention which is the greatest misery of authorship, when dull nothing replies to our anxious invocations.
Mary Shelley
__________________________
Keep remiding yourself that literature is one of the saddest roads that leads to everything.
Andre Breton
_____________
I'm not an artist.
An artist makes an object. Me; it's not an object, I work in history.
I'm a storyteller.
Sebastião Salgado
__________________________
La inspiración existe, pero tiene que encontrarse trabajando.
Pablo Picasso
__________________________
I don't paint what I see, I paint what I know.
Pablo Picasso
__________________________
If you write a little everyday without hope eventually the shape of the story will appear.
Lord Tennison
__________________________
Le romancier médiocre fait ses romans d'après sa vie réelle, les bons d'après ses vies possibles.
Andre Gide
__________________________
He, too, has resigned his part
On the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
William Butler Yeats
__________________________
A common sense which denies the superiority of uncommon sense is systematic superficiality.
Northrop Frye
__________________________
L'Habitude es la synthèse originaire du temps, qui constitue la vie du présent qui passe; la Mémoire es la synthèse fondamentale du temps, que constitute l'être du passé, (ce qui fait passer le présent).
Gilles Deleuze
__________________________
No one can be a great thinker who does not recognize that as a thinker it is his first duty to follow his intellect to whatever conclusions it might lead.
John Stuart Mill
__________________________
If you think you are capable of living without writing, do not write.
Rainer Maria Rilke
__________________________
Destroy my desire, blot out my ideals, show me something better, and I will follow you.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky
__________________________
The literal details of writing involve one's own physiology or metabolism. You begin from a standing start and you have to accelerate yourself to the point of celebration where the words are coming - well, in order. All writing is generated by a certain minimum of ego: you must assume a position of authority in saying that the way I'm writing is the only way it happened. Writer's block, for example, is simply a failure of ego.
Norman Mailer
__________________________
Canta, oh Diosa, la gula del espectador.
Carlos Monsiváis
__________________________
Out, out, brief candle!
Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
William Shakespeare
__________________________
God knows there are enough natural limits to human knowledge without our suffering willingly those that are enforced upon us by an ignorantly rationalized fear of experience . . .
Prudence restrains me. But as the past must sometimes be affronted so also must prudence sometimes be overruled. Caveat.
Alexander Trocchi
__________________________
Eternamente é ter éter na mente
Chacal
__________________________
Is there a life before death?
Seamus Heaney
__________________________
All my gestures try to overcome the irreflexive orthodoxy of my ancestors.
Hugo Pezzini
__________________________
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night:
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends-
It gives a lovely light!
Edna St. Vincent Millay.
__________________________
L'art c'est ce qui rend la vie plus intéressante que l'art.
Gerard Fromanger
__________________________
"We are like tourists with guns."
(Anonymous USA National Guardsman; in Afghanistan)
__________________________
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked . . . angelhead hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dinamo in the machinery of night.
Allen Ginsberg
__________________________
The artist must make posterity believe he never lived.
Gustav Flaubert
__________________________
The intention of the historical avant-garde movements was defined as the destruction of art as an institution set off from the praxis of art.
Peter Burger
__________________________
Everything that isn't autobiographical is plagiarism.
Pedro Almodovar
__________________________
A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than for other people.
Thomas Mann
__________________________
Everything has been said before, but since nobody listens we have to keep going back and beginning all over again.
Andre Gide
__________________________
People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles.
Bret Easton Ellis
__________________________
If we knew what we were doing, we wouldn't call it research, now, would we?
Albert Einstein
__________________________
You just have to go on when it is worst and most helpless.
There is only one thing to do with a novel and that is go straight on through the end of the damn thing.
Ernest Hemingway
__________________________
Nenhum escritor gosta realmente de escrever.
Eu gosto de beber vinho e de amar: na minha idade eu não devería perder tempo com outras coisas, mas não consigo parar de escrever.
É uma doença.
Rubem Fonseca
__________________________
A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving.
Lao Tzu
__________________________
One writes because one does not know what one has to say, to try to find out what it is.
J. F. Lyotard
__________________________
If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stomping on a human face - forever.
George Orwell
__________________________
You can't think your way to write action.
You can only act your way to write thinking.
David Milch
__________________________
I felt that blank incapability of invention which is the greatest misery of authorship, when dull nothing replies to our anxious invocations.
Mary Shelley
__________________________
Keep remiding yourself that literature is one of the saddest roads that leads to everything.
Andre Breton
_____________
I'm not an artist.
An artist makes an object. Me; it's not an object, I work in history.
I'm a storyteller.
Sebastião Salgado
__________________________
La inspiración existe, pero tiene que encontrarse trabajando.
Pablo Picasso
__________________________
I don't paint what I see, I paint what I know.
Pablo Picasso
__________________________
If you write a little everyday without hope eventually the shape of the story will appear.
Lord Tennison
__________________________
Le romancier médiocre fait ses romans d'après sa vie réelle, les bons d'après ses vies possibles.
Andre Gide
__________________________
He, too, has resigned his part
On the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
William Butler Yeats
__________________________
A common sense which denies the superiority of uncommon sense is systematic superficiality.
Northrop Frye
__________________________
L'Habitude es la synthèse originaire du temps, qui constitue la vie du présent qui passe; la Mémoire es la synthèse fondamentale du temps, que constitute l'être du passé, (ce qui fait passer le présent).
Gilles Deleuze
__________________________
No one can be a great thinker who does not recognize that as a thinker it is his first duty to follow his intellect to whatever conclusions it might lead.
John Stuart Mill
__________________________
If you think you are capable of living without writing, do not write.
Rainer Maria Rilke
__________________________
Destroy my desire, blot out my ideals, show me something better, and I will follow you.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky
__________________________
The literal details of writing involve one's own physiology or metabolism. You begin from a standing start and you have to accelerate yourself to the point of celebration where the words are coming - well, in order. All writing is generated by a certain minimum of ego: you must assume a position of authority in saying that the way I'm writing is the only way it happened. Writer's block, for example, is simply a failure of ego.
Norman Mailer
__________________________
Canta, oh Diosa, la gula del espectador.
Carlos Monsiváis
__________________________
Out, out, brief candle!
Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
William Shakespeare
__________________________
God knows there are enough natural limits to human knowledge without our suffering willingly those that are enforced upon us by an ignorantly rationalized fear of experience . . .
Prudence restrains me. But as the past must sometimes be affronted so also must prudence sometimes be overruled. Caveat.
Alexander Trocchi
__________________________
Eternamente é ter éter na mente
Chacal
__________________________
Is there a life before death?
Seamus Heaney
__________________________
All my gestures try to overcome the irreflexive orthodoxy of my ancestors.
Hugo Pezzini
__________________________
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