Sunday, April 29, 2007

Who will be at Sanssouci tonight?
The boys that made me lose the blues tonight,
and then my eyesight
All together, playing games of cards
Gambling the tiny shards of brass, once my heart

Who will be at Sanssouci tonight?
I'm lookin' through the window from the garden
Waitin' for the call to my hotel room
I'm tired of writing elegies to boredom
I just want to be at Sanssouci tonight

Who will be at Sanssouci tonight?
Surely not the one that loves me truly, only
He's probably down at the stables, there
Gently polishing my cabriolet, only I don't care,
I really want to go

So I'm opening the door wide to the ballroom
Callin' up some dude from my hotel room
I'm tired of writing elegies in general
I just want to be at Sanssouci tonight
Tonight, tonight...

The candles seem to all have been blown out
Cupid's wings have cobweb rings and no one's about
Could it be I came to the wrong place?
But I swear I saw them climb the stairs, that sweet mystery

Who will be at Sanssouci tonight?
It's only when you're outside that you notice
Only from the window you can see them
Once the door is open, all will vanish
Ain't nobody at Sanssouci tonight
Tonight, tonight

Rufus Wainwright, Sanssouci
Pic by Bernard Faucon

Saturday, April 28, 2007

Spinning like a ghost
on the bottom
of a top,
I’m haunted by all the space
that I
will live without

Richard Brautigan, Boo, Forever
Pic by William Eggleston

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

And make a future dream be ours
through your eyes I swallow flowers
And disdain the winter showers
Choosing then to bathe in you

Will Oldham & Matt Sweeney, Only Someone Running

Saturday, April 21, 2007

I know how it feels

Friday, April 20, 2007

Los temerosos de los brujos vecinos
lanzan puñados de sal al fuego
cuando pasan las aves agoreras.
Mis amigos buscadores de entierros
en sueños hallan monedas de oro.
Los despierta el jinete del rayo
cayendo hecho llamas entre ellos.

Medianoche de San Juan.
Las higueras se visten para la fiesta.
Eco de gemidos de animales
hundidos hace milenios en los pantanos.
Los chimalenes reúnen las ovejas
que huyeron del corral.
Aúllan los perros en casa del avaro
que quiere pactar con el Diablo.

Ya no reconozco mi casa.
En ella caen luces de estrellas en ruinas
Como puñados de tierra en una fosa.
Mi amiga vela frente a un espejo:
espera allí la llegada del desconocido
anunciado por las sombras más largas del año.

Al alba, anidan lechuzas en las higueras de luto.
En los rescoldos amanecen huellas de manos de brujos.
Despierto teniendo en mis manos hierbas y tierra
de un lugar donde nunca estuve.
Jorge Teillier, Los conjuros

"Everywhere you see these suburbs springing up. They represent the optimum of what people want. There's a certain sort of logic leading towards these immaculate suburbs. And they're terrifying, because they are the death of the soul ... This is the prison this planet is being turned into."

J.G.Ballard, in conversation

Thursday, April 19, 2007

I'm a fountain of blood
In the shape of a girl

Björk, Bachelorette

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

This is rock'n'roll

Saturday, April 14, 2007

Don't hurt, just obey
Lie down, do as they say
May as well be heaven
This hell smells the same
These sunless afternoons
I can't find myself

Manic Street Preachers, Yes
Art by Gus Fink

Friday, April 13, 2007

And what costume shall the poor girl wear
To all tomorrow's parties
A hand-me-down dress from who knows where
To all tomorrow's parties
And where will she go and what shall she do
When midnight comes around
She'll turn once more to Sunday's clown
And cry behind the door

The Velvet Underground, All Tomorrow's Parties

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Porque eso sí, pienso en ti cada día
Desde aquella mañana de agosto
Reinventada hasta la saciedad
Sin lograr encontrar nada de nada
Ni una explicación ni un porqué
Al que poder aferrarme
(Y ahora no sé por qué
Viene a mi mente el colchón
Que tuvimos que bajar Javi y yo a la basura
Sin poder dejar de mirar esa mancha oscura
Que allí nos dejaste como herencia y recuerdo
Antes de partir en tu último viaje
Probablemente al infierno)

Nacho Vegas, El ángel Simón

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

When I was a child
there was an old woman in our neighborhood
whom we called The Witch.
All day she peered from her second story
from behind the wrinkled curtains
and sometimes she would open the window
and yell: Get out of my life!
She had hair like kelpand a voice like a boulder.

I think of her sometimes now
and wonder if I am becoming her.
My shoes turn up like a jester's.
Clumps of my hair, as I write this,
curl up individually like toes.
I am shoveling the children out,
scoop after scoop.
Only my books anoint me,
and a few friends,
those who reach into my veins.
Maybe I am becoming a hermit,
opening the door for only
a few special animals?
Maybe my skull is too crowded
and it has no opening through which
to feed it soup?
Maybe I have plugged up my sockets
to keep the gods in?
Maybe, although my heart
is a kitten of butter,
I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
Yes. It is the witch's life,
climbing the primordial climb,
a dream within a dream,
then sitting here
holding a basket of fire.

Anne Sexton, The Witch's Life

Monday, April 09, 2007

The morning sun touched lightly on the eyes of Lucy Jordan
In a white suburban bedroom in a white suburban town
As she lay there ’neath the covers dreaming of a thousand lovers
Till the world turned to orange and the room went spinning round.

At the age of thirty-seven she realised she’d never
Ride through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair.
So she let the phone keep ringing and she sat there softly singing
Little nursery rhymes she’d memorised in her daddy’s easy chair.

Her husband, he’s off to work and the kids are off to school,
And there are, oh, so many ways for her to spend the day.
She could clean the house for hours or rearrange the flowers
Or run naked through the shady street screaming all the way.

At the age of thirty-seven she realised she’d never
Ride through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair
So she let the phone keep ringing as she sat there softly singing
Pretty nursery rhymes she’d memorised in her daddy’s easy chair.

The evening sun touched gently on the eyes of Lucy Jordan
On the roof top where she climbed when all the laughter grew too loud
And she bowed and curtsied to the man who reached and offered her his hand,
And he led her down to the long white car that waited past the crowd.

Shel Silverstein, The Ballad of Lucy Jordan

Friday, April 06, 2007

And you'll die with the rose still on your lips
And in time the heart-shaped bone that was your hips
And all the worms, they will climb the rugged ladder of your spine
We're all mad here

Tom Waits, We Are All Mad Here

Tom Waits - Lie To Me

Wish Me Luck

Thursday, April 05, 2007

Monday, April 02, 2007

"Quizá los muertos estaban presentes y ausentes de ese modo: en el mundo, pero no del mundo. Quizá los muertos deambularan como Lucas por las ventanas de personas extrañas, mirando a una mujer y a su retrato".

Michael Cunningham, Días cruciales
Art by Gus Fink