Feist and Kings of Convenience - Know How (Cirkus, Stockholm, Sweden 7/3...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KPfWxEbblHI

Ceci n'est pas une pipe...

De lo barroco y los días: las cosas no son lo que parecen.

We stood by a pond that april day... 

Para un martes en el que las primeras lluvias abochornan, leer a Hardy. Para honrar las historias con un final, leer a Hardy.  Para esperar un nuevo inicio, leer a Hardy.  Siempre que sean las cuatro o las cinco, leer a Hardy. 

Jueves

Dos de la tarde. 

Martes expiatorio 

Después de enjuiciada y enviada a lo hoguera, en medio de tibias cenizas flotantes,  viene a la mente lo que pudo haberse dicho para salvarse. 

Sufjan Stevens - All Delighted People

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NW02HUysX3w

"My heart is like a singing bird"

Stanzas

Often rebuked, yet always back returning
To those first feelings that were born with me,
And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning
For idle dreams of things which cannot be:

To-day, I will seek not the shadowy region;
Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear;
And visions rising, legion after legion,
Bring the unreal world too strangely near.

I’ll walk, but not in old heroic traces,
And not in paths of high morality,
And not among the half-distinguished faces,
The clouded forms of long-past history.

I’ll walk where my own nature would be leading:

It vexes me to choose another guide:

Where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding;

Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side.

What have those lonely mountains worth revealing?

More glory and more grief than I can tell:

The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling
Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell.

Emily Brontë 

Koop feat. Yukimi Nagano - Whenever there is you [1-1]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B1FJk_g__xQ

Sólo un momento nos sentimos dioses
inmortales por la calma que vestimos
y la altiva indiferencia 
a cuanto es transitorio. 


Ricardo Reis 

Small Deaths 

Cuerpecillo de mariposa encontrado en cubeta. 

Minutos cuánticos 

Hasta ahora no ha habido científico que pueden explicar el fenómeno. Unos dicen que son agujeros en el tiempo, otros les llaman cuerdas.  Hay quienes prefieren no hablar de ello.  Pero todos concuerdan en que hay domingos en que por instantes se viaja al pasado. 

The truth seems to be, however, that, when he casts his leaves forth upon the wind, the author addresses, not the many who will fling aside his volume, or never take it up, but the few who will understand him, better that most of his schoolmates and life-mates. Some authors, indeed, do far more than this, and indulge themselves in such  confidential depths of revelation as could fittingly be addressed, only and exclusively, to the one heart and mind of perfect sympathy; as if the printed book, thrown at large of the wide world, were certain to find out the divided segment of the writer's own nature, and complete this circle of existence by bringing him into communion with it. 

Hawthorne 

...and now working on: 

Arqueología moderna

Warm Monday

Mi papá me besa la frente para despedirse. Su beso tibio me despierta pero él no se da cuenta. Son aproximadamente las tres de la tarde. Yo dormía en el sofá. Oigo el sonido de las llaves cuando cierra la puerta. Entreabro los ojos y lo primero que veo es la mesa, y sobre ella unos tuppers. Me acerco lentamente, pues aún me siento débil de la noche de fiebre que había pasado. Finalmente logro abrir por completo los ojos y tomo débilmente los tuppers, al separar la tapa, pequeñas gotas de vapor condensado escurren y el tibio aroma  me transporta a la niñez: a las noches cuando estaba enferma y sufría de fiebre y mi mamá me cubría con paños fríos la frente y el estómago y al día siguiente, al igual que esta vez, me preparaba sopa de fideo. 

If it's Monday, read Tony Morrison. If you are sick, read Tony Morrison. If you are a woman, read Tony Morrison. If you are sad, read Tony Morrison. If you are a man also read Tony Morrison. For every occasion, read Tony Morrison. 

But then or now, decent underwear or none, wild women never could hide their innocence -a kind of pity-kitty hopefulness that their prince was on his way. Especially the tough ones with their box cutters and dirty language, or the glossy ones with two seated cars and a pocket book full of dope. Even the ones who wear scars like presidential medals and stocking rolled at their ankles can't hide the sugar-child, the winsome baby girl curled up somewhere inside, between the ribs, say, or under the heart. Naturally all of them have a sad story: too much notice, not enough, or the worst kind. Some tale about dragon daddies and false-hearted men, or mean mamas and friends who did them wrong.  Each story has a monster in it who made them tough instead of brave, so they open their legs rather than their hearts where that folded child is tucked. 

Love Toni Morrison

Pies que caminan en dirección opuesta a los ojos. 

            Historias que desde el inicio empiezan a terminar... 

I wish there was a 

Mantra para enfrentarse a ese monstruo que son los trastes sucios apilados.