The cuckoo clock

"You know what the fellow said: in Italy, for thirty years under the Borgias, they had warfares, terror, murder and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Reinassance. In Switzerland, they had brotherly love, they had five hundred years of democracy and peace -and what did they produce? The cuckoo clock."

The Third Man.

Wiener Blut

"Heast, was hat der Bua

Was braucht er für a Medizin

Geh schau, geh schau da was an

der weiß genau

 

Der Peda und der Rote ham dem Kas ane geb'n

Eahm hat's wie Hauptfett aufg'stellt

volle Wäsch' in'd Wand, war des scheen

Der Guck schmiert ab, der Stockchef kommt, a G'spiel wird inszeniert,

wobei der Rote 'n Peda sei komplette Auslös inhaliert,

man ruft den (Doktor, Doktor)

der Peda sieht rot (Doktor, Doktor)

ana fragt: "is' der tot"

 

Wiener Blut - in diesem Saft, die Kraft, die Wiener Glut

kommt ana link uns kommen wir in Wut, bis er erkennen tut

Wir hab'n die Medizin, der Dekadenz hab'n wir a Preis verlieh'n

dabei san wir moralisch überblieb'n, wir steh'n und fall'n und lieg'n

Wir hab'n die Medizin

 

Oh, oh, oh ...

Heast der is da arg

Was is des für a Medizin

Oh, der Professor hat an Dreia ausg'faßt, heit geht er ham

Sein Weg führt ihn direkt in Prater, in'd Allee mit de Bam

Kein Bein allein, er fasziniert sein Gürteltier erblickt,

jedoch die Beste mit an, "jetzt kummst?", stop retour in Krieag ihn schickt

Man ruft den (Doktor, Doktor)

Der Professor sieht rot (Doktor, Doktor)

Ane fragt: "is' der tot?"

 

Wiener Blut - mit Mord und Totschlag hab'n wir nix am Hut,

doch sind für eine Hetz wir immer gut, für dich und mich in Wien

Wir präsentieren Wien, auch im Club 45 samma drin,

dort sind wir unter uns dann sehr intim, im Steh'n, im Fall'n, im Lieg'n

 

Wir präsentieren Wien"

Falco, Wiener Blut.

Mi patria, mis zapatos.

"Jamás he podido respetar esas extrañas leyes.
Jamás lo podré disimular,
luna vuela y hazme a mí volar.
Estás tan lejos de mí que a veces pienso que nunca te encontré.
Un mundo extraño, dormido,
a punto siempre de estallar.
Digo que volveré, primero debo aprender a caminar.
Sin ti sobreviviré, muy lejos tu nombre me acompañará.

Mi patria en mis zapatos, mis manos son mi ejército;
nace luna fría, nace y hazme olvidar.
Mírame, soy provisional;
tú también y nadie te comprenderá.
Quédate un minuto más;
luna azul descansa y hazme descansar..."

El último de la fila, Mi patria en mis zapatos.

You'll catch that blood

"Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing direction. You change direction, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't just something that blew in from far away, something thas has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside you. So you all can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverised bones."

"And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphyiscal or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.
And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about."

Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore.

La llei de l'embut (el meu poema de nadal)

"La vida és un joc d'embuts, un rere
l'altre, el següent amb broc més petit
que l'anterior. I és necessari veure'n
la creixent dificultat, l'estretor
que progressivament van engreixant
les hores que anem escoltant lleugeres
pel passar dels dies inaugurats
quan vam caure en la primera desgràcia.
Però no és un laberint uniforme
perquè, si ho fos, hauríem inventat
un fil d'Ariadna que anés lligat
del preu de la llevadora. I presos
de les mans, caminaríem plegats
amb la serenor dels que ja sentint-se
perdedors saben que també entraran
quan el jutge canti la fi de cursa.
Però no. La llei de l'embut només
consenteix el pas a un de sol, com totes
les sortides possibles per arribar
a algun lloc amb ànsies de voler
improvisar les preguntes i els precs
obligats per seguir desesperant.
D'això alguns en diran 'el camí'.
D'altres 'preludi de no-solució'.
Pels més, no té prou valor per dur nom."


Marc Masdeu, Els escalfadors.

(24 de desembre: tal dia com avui també va néixer Marc Masdeu)

Sobre el mar

"Y el aire se volvió dos veces más azul.
Y repentinamente lo hemos visto de nuevo
apretado
en el puerto
entre muelles
y cascos de los barcos.

Yo me acordé de un pájaro rapaz
que vi una vez en el parque zoólogico.
Alas bajas, sin fuerzas
la cabeza caída sobre su corazón.
al zambullirse el tren en la estación
lejos de mi mirada quedó el mar.
Pero cuando la máquina arrancó
nos hemos encontrado una vez más.
Él era el horizonte
el centelleo frío del acero
que a través de sus cejas fruncidas me
observaba
volviéndose más cálido y más dulce
cuando iba aproximándose
No, en ese momento no pensé
que la vida del hombre es como espuma
que refulge un instante y se disipa
en el movimiento sin fin."

Nâzim Hikmet, Duro oficio el exilio. El Bardo Colección de Poesía.

White Winter Hymnal

"I was following the pack
all swallowed in their coats
with scarves of red tied 'round their throats
to keep their little heads
from fallin' in the snow
And I turned 'round and there you go
And, Michael, you would fall
and turn the white snow red as strawberries
in the summertime."

Fleet Foxes, White Winter Hymnal.

Professor Sea Gull

"Let me introduce myself. The name is Joseph Ferdinand Gould, a graduate of Harvard, magna cum difficultate, class of 1911, and chairman of the board of Weal and Woe, Incorporated. In exchange for a drink, I'll recite you a poem, deliver a lecture, argue a point, or take off my shoes and imitate a sea gull. I prefer gin, but beer will do."

Joseph Mitchel. Joe Gould's secret and Professor Sea Gull, The New Yorker.

Himnari

"Dicta'm, vés dient, repeteixo sóc jo, sóc jo,
sóc jo perquè havia de ser un altre i no ha pogut ser,
compareixo perquè un fantasma s'ha posat el gec de fòsfor vermell,
penso perquè cada estel és una nova idea,
parlo perquè el gemec més fort és la paraula,
m'hi veig perquè és al contrari, la llum em mira a mi,
compro perquè l'ànima s'ho va gastar tot,
menjo perquè fou dit: qui mossegui la poma caurà mort,
bec perquè vaig néixer dessagnat,
estimo perquè provinc d'una erupció solar,
tinc por perquè el visitant i l'assassí són la mateixa persona,
m'adormo perquè abans era cec,
somio perquè el cervell és un glaç i es desfà al llit,
em faig vell perquè l'eternitat s'acaba,
em desperto perquè l'alba sóc jo".

Màrius Sampere i Passarell, Subllum.

La navaja de Steinbeck

"Antes de viajar a Rusia, no sabíamos qué tipo de equipo estaría disponible, así que en Francia habíamos comprado una navaja, una navaja que tenía una hoja para casi todas las situaciones físicas del mundo, y para algunas de las espirituales. Estaba equipada con hojas que eran tijeras, con hojas que eran limas, punzones, sierras, abrelatas, abrebotellas, sacacorchos, herramientas para sacar piedras de los cascos de un caballo, una hoja para comer y una hoja para asesinar, un destornillador y un formón. Con ella se podía reparar un reloj o el Canal de Panamá. Era la navaja más maravillosa que nadie había visto nunca, y ya la teníamos durante casi dos meses, y lo único que habíamos hecho con ella era cortar salsichas. Pero debe admitirse que la navaja cortaba las salsichas muy bien".

John Steinbeck, Viaje a Rusia. Grupo Unisón Ediciones (en liquidación).

Quicksand years

Quicksand years that whirl me I know not whither,
Your schemes, politics, fail, lines give away, substances mock and elude me,
Only the theme I sing, the great and strong-posses'd soul, eludes not,
One's-self must never give way -that is the final substance -that out of all is sure,
Out of politics, triumphs, battles, life, what at last finally remains?
When shows break up, what but One's-self is sure?


(Años inestables que me arrojáis no sé a dónde,
Vuestros planes y vuestra política fracasan, los trazos se
desvanecen, las sustancias se burlan de mí y se me escapan,
Sólo el tema que yo canto, el alma grande y fuerte,
no se me escapa,
Ser uno mismo no debe desvanecerse nunca -esa es la sustancia
primordial -esa la única cosa segura entre todas,
De la política, triunfos, batallas, vida, ¿qué queda al fin?
Cuando los espectáculos terminan, ¿qué es lo seguro salvo uno mismo?)

Walt Whitman, Drum Taps. Ediciones Hiperión.

The horror in the eyes of women and girls

"Vasily Grossman was with them when they sacked the town of Schwerin. He jotted down in pencil in a small notebook whatever he saw: 'Everything is on fire... An old woman jumps from a window in a burning building... Looting is going on... It's light during the night because everything is ablaze... At the [town] commandant's office, a German woman dressed in black and white dead lips, is speaking in a weak, whispering voice. There is a girl with her who has black bruises on her neck and face, a swollen eye and terrible bruises on her hands. The girl was raped by a soldier from the headquarters signals company'.
Grossman noted the 'horror in the eyes of women and girls... Terrible things are happening to german women. A cultivated german man explains with expressive gesture and broken Russian words that his wife has been raped by ten men that day... Soviet girls who have been liberated from camps are suffering greatly too. Last night some of them hid in the room provided for the war correspondents. Screams weak us up in the night'. Grossman noted what he had evidently heard about a young mother. She was being raped continously in a farm shed. Her relatives came to the shed and asked the soldiers to allow her a break to breast-feed the baby because it would not stop crying."

"The NKVD [former KGB] chief in northern East Prussia reported to Beria that 'suicides of Germans, particulary women, are becoming more and more widespread'. For those who did not have a pistol or poison, most of the suicides consisted of people hanging themselves in attics with the rope tied to the rafters. A number of women, unable to bring themselves to hang a child, cut their children's wrists first and then their own".

Anthony Beevor, Berlin The Downfall 1945.

El gat dels escenaris

"El gat dels escenaris viu de nit, com els grans calaveres; menja alguna rata, menja una mica d'aiguacuit, menja de vegades algun llonguet de cartró d'aquells que fan servir en les comèdies d'alta societat quan presenten un sopar de senyors. Però tot això, el gat dels escenaris, no l'alimenta. Sempre hi ha una ànima bona que cura d'ell. Aquesta ànima bona acostuma a ésser una característica plena d'escrúpols i d'idil·lis. A l'hora de l'assaig li porta un farcellet amb un tall de pilota freda i dues cues de verat. De vegades no és cap actriu, sinó que és la mare o la tia d'un galant jove, i, molt sovint, la qui acostuma a fer de protectora del gat dels escenaris és una habilleuse que viu sempre lluny del teatre, que passa una misèria negra i té una filla de quinze anys amb atacs epilèptics.

El gat dels escenaris, generalment no el pot veure ningú; acostuma a tenir tots els vicis i totes les malalties dels gats reunides en un sol individu. El personal de fusteria del teatre, i tots els qui pugen i baixen els telons, són enemics personals del gat, el tracten amb una ferocitat il·limitada; no hi ha cap gat d'aquests que tingui totes les costelles senceres i tingui tots els pèls que ha de tenir.

S'ha de confessar que el gat dels escenaris és en general mala fatxa, brut i tronat, i sense cap mena de solta; sembla fet amb retalls de decoració vella i amb totes les sobres dels pèls que els còmics es posen a la cara al moment de caracteritzar-se; jo he conegut algun gat d'aquests, que en passar-li la mà per l'esquena m'ha semblat tocar una perruca que vaig veure en una comèdia de "centro moral"; d'aquelles comèdies en les quals només surten homes que sempre ploren i fan una amanida cada dos per tres".

Josep Maria de Sagarra, L'Aperitiu.

Of wine and death

"Being-towards-death, for Heidegger, is not an accidental quality of Human Beings, and presumably the same goes for wines: it is our -their- essence. This sounds sombre, but it needn't to be. The great thing about the way wines (and some human beings) age is that they mellow; they lose tannic armour and hard edges, become more rounded and more complete. Instead of a decline, they can offer an ascension: a rising from the earthy ground into the ether. Becoming more spiritual, they might summon spirits: as Yeats said in 'All Souls' Night', 'it is a ghost's right... /To drink from the wine breath, /While our gross palates drink from the whole wine."

Harry Eyres, Financial Times Arts & Weekend.

4:04

"At 4:04
Come in and shut the door
My favorite time of day
To lay with you is afternoon
I set my watch
I never need to
In that lonesome mood of being too long away from you

Leave us alone

Pour some tea
And western sun shiny
Let’s disappear into the last rays
Of another do nothing day
There’s so little done
But rest is necessary
Mission unaccomplished
‘Cause the best things happen in reclusion
Leave us alone
Leave us alone

Drop the Venetian blinds
Drop what you’re doing
Unsociable

A salty morning
And save the chocolate for later on
Tape the drapes closed,
And let the grass grow
‘Cause my whole life’s right here inside
Leave us alone
Leave us alone
Please leave us alone
Leave us alone".

Mark Mulcahy

El hielo en Macondo

"Muchos años después, frente al pelotón de fusilamiento, el coronel Aureliano Buendía había de recordar aquella tarde remota en que su padre lo llevó a conocer el hielo. Macondo era entonces una aldea de veinte casas de barro y cañabrava construidas a la orilla de un río de aguas diáfanas que se precipitaban por un lecho de piedras pulidas, blancas y enormes como huevos prehistóricos. El mundo era tan reciente, que muchas cosas carecían de nombre, y para mencionarlas había que señalarlas con el dedo".
...

"Estaban obstinados en que su padre los llevara a conocer la portentosa novedad de los sabios de Memphis, anunciada a la entrada de una tienda que, según decían, perteneció al rey Salomón. Tanto insistieron, que José Arcadio Buendía pagó los treinta reales y los condujo hasta el centro de la carpa, donde había un gigante de torso peludo y cabeza rapada, con un anillo de cobre en la nariz y una pesada cadena de hierro en el tobillo, custodiando un cofre pirata. Al ser destapado por el gigante, el cofre dejó escapar un aliento glacial. Dentro solo había un bloque transparente, con infinitas agujas internas en las cuales se despedazaba en estrellas de colores la claridad del crepúsculo. Desconcertado, sabiendo que los niños esperaban una explicación inmediata, José Arcadio Buendía se atrevió a murmurar:
-Es el diamante más grande del mundo.
-No -corrigió el gitano-. Es hielo."

Gabriel García Márquez, Cien años de soledad.

La muerte en Macondo

"Ese día se metió en el agua por un mal camino y no lo encontraron hasta la mañana siguiente, varios kilómetros más abajo, varado en un recodo luminoso y con un gallinazo solitario parado en el vientre. Contra las escandalizadas protestas de Úrsula, que lo lloró con más dolor que a su propio padre, José Arcadio Buendía se opuso a que lo enterraran. 'Es inmortal -dijo- y él mismo reveló la fórmula de la resurección'. Revivió el olvidado atanor y puso a hervir un caldero de mercurio junto al cadáver que poco a poco se iba llenando de burbujas azules. Don Apolinar Moscote se atrevió a recordarle que un ahogado insepulto era un peligro para la salud pública. 'Nada de eso, puesto que está vivo', fue la réplica de José Arcadio Buendía, que completó las setenta y dos horas de sahumerios mercuriales cuando ya el cadáver empezaba a reventarse en una floración lívida, cuyos silbidos tenues impregnaron la casa de un vapor pestilente".

Gabriel García Márquez, Cien años de soledad.

El amor en Macondo

"Rebeca se levantó a medianoche y comió puñados de tierra en el jardín, con una avidez suicida, llorando de dolor y furia, masticando lombrices tiernas y astillándose las muelas con huesos de caracoles. Vomitó hasta el amanecer. Se hundió en un estado de prostración febril, perdió la conciencia, y su corazón se perdió en un delirio sin pudor. Úrsula, escandalizada, forzó la cerradura del baúl, y encontró en el fondo, atadas con cintas color de rosa, las dieciséis cartas perfumadas y los esqueletos de hojas y pétalos conservados en libros antiguos y las mariposas disecadas que al tocarlas se convirtieron en polvo".

Gabriel García Márquez, Cien años de soledad.

das bunte Weltgewühl

"Still und eng und ruhig auferzogen

wirft man uns auf einmal in die Welt;

uns umspülen hunderttausend Wogen,

Alles reizt uns, mancherlei gefällt.

Mancherlei verdriesst uns, und von Stund zu Stunden

Schwanckt das Leicht unruhige Gefühl;

Wir empfinden, und was wir empfunden,

spült hinweg das Bunte Weltgewühl"

J.W. Goethe

Big Ideas

"Don't get any big ideas
They're not gonna happen
You paint yourself white
And fill up with noise
But there'll be something missing
Now that you've found it, it's gone
Now that you feel it, you don't
You've gone off the rails
So don't get any big ideas
They're not gonna happen
You'll go to hell for what your dirty mind is thinking"

(Radiohead, Nude)

Black Watch

"Like any military unit, the Black Watch has to carve out its own identity. It has to see itself and its members as special. It has several tactics for achieving this. Then there's the uniforms: the kilts, and the red hackle, awarded to the Black Watch by George III in 1796, which they wear on their Tam O'Shanters. There are the Pipes and Drums, who played at John F Kennedy's funeral and tour the world.

There is a cachet to be had from serving in the Black Watch, the oldest Highland regiment. They call it the "Golden Thread": the connection that runs through the history of the regiment since its formation. Even today, in our supposedly fractured society, the regiment exists on a different plane. In Iraq, there were lads serving alongside their fathers. There were groups of friends from even the smallest communities: four from the former fishing village of St Monans; seven from the former mining village of High Valleyfield; dozens from Dundee and Dunfermline, Kirkcaldy and Perth. The army does best in those areas of the country the Ministry of Defence describes as having "settled communities". The Army does not recruit well in London or any other big city; fighting units tend to be more at home with homogeneity than with metropolitanism or multiculturalism.

When the clans of Scotland used to fight, they would have people who stood in front of the soldiers and recited the names of their ancestors. In the end, our soldiers don't fight for Britain or for the government or for Scotland. They fight for the regiment. Their company. Their platoon. And for their mates."

(Black Watch, scottish theatre play. Until December 21st at the St. Ann's Warehouse, Brooklyn-New York)

Was gilt?

"Dein Aug sah mir zu, sah hinweg,
dein Mund
sprach sich dem Aug zu, Ich hörte:

Wir
wissen ja nicht, weisst du,
wir
wissen ja nicht,
was gilt."

(Paul Celan, from the poem Zürich zum Storchen)



(traduït al francès:)

"Ton oeil me regarda,
regarda au loin,
ta bouche
se promit à l'oeil, j'entendis:

Nous ne
savons pas, sais-tu,
nous
ne savons pas
ce
qui est vrai."

Eviction

"At the age of 90, Addie Polk found herself in foreclosure this week, about to be forced from the home she’s lived in for nearly 40 years. So, with a gun in her hand, the Akron widow apparently shot herself in the chest Wednesday afternoon as deputies were knocking on her door with eviction papers in hand. While a nation reels in financial crisis from years of mortgage abuse, Polk is recovering at Akron General Medical Center, awaiting word on where she will live when she’s released.”

EVICTION, from The New Yorker.

“In the early afternoon on October 1st, Donald Fatheree, a sheriff’s deputy in Akron, Ohio, drove his black-and-gold cruiser into one of Akron’s dying neighborhoods and came to a stop in front of a small white wood-frame house, with a neatly trimmed lawn and a beige Chevrolet parked in the driveway. He had been there many times before. Part of Fatheree’s job is to execute writs of possession, legal orders turning people out of their foreclosed homes—a disagreeable task mitigated, if only slightly, by the long grind of the process…

Fatheree knew little more about the person inside than the information contained in the original foreclosure complaint: “Addie Polk, an unmarried woman.”

You could never be sure what awaited on the other side of the door. As a precaution, Fatheree brought along another deputy, Jason Beam. Fatheree knocked on the front door, and, once again, no answer came. According to department policy, the evicting officers could not enter the premises unless they were accompanied by a representative from the bank. In this case, the defaulted loan had been made by Countrywide Home Loans, and had been assumed by the Federal National Mortgage Association, or Fannie Mae, which had acquired the house at a sheriff ’s auction in June. The house, appraised at forty-two thousand dollars, had sold for twenty-eight thousand. No one from Countrywide had yet arrived, and the two deputies decided to wait. Another deputy, Dave Bailey, happened by, and stopped to say hello. It was a lovely day, and soon the three officers were chatting in the sunshine just a few paces from the front porch. After a time, they were joined by a curious neighbor, Robert Dillon, who owned the house next door.

Countrywide’s representative never arrived. Fatheree was ready to leave, and have the eviction rescheduled, when the men heard a noise inside the house. Dillon, worried that Addie had fallen and needed help, said that he knew a way to get in, and Fatheree told him to try. Dillon fetched a ladder, climbed to a second-floor bathroom window, and worked it open. He stepped inside and called for Addie, but heard no reply. Fatheree’s official eviction notice, the duct tape attached, lay on a bedroom dresser. Dillon found Addie in bed, reclined on her side, apparently asleep. A gun lay beside her, and he recalls wondering, Huh? Why is Miss Polk sleeping with a gun in her bed?”