Sunday, September 30, 2007

"...Pero no hables de los jardines, no hables de la luna, no hables de la rosa, no hables del mar. Habla de lo que sabes. Habla de lo que vibra en tu médula y hace luces y sombras en tu mirada, habla del dolor incesante de tus huesos, habla del vértigo, habla de tu respiración, de tu desolación, de tu traición. Es tan oscuro, tan en silencio el proceso al que le obligo. Oh habla del silencio".

Alejandra Pizarnik, Extracción de la piedra de la locura
Art by Beksinski

Friday, September 28, 2007

Dear darkness
Dear darkness
Won't you cover, cover me again

Dear darkness
Dear I've been your friend for many years
Won't you do this for me?
Dearest darkness
And cover me from the sun under the
Words typing
The words are tighening around my throat and, and
Around the throat of the one I love
The timing, the typing, the tightening
Around the throat of the one I love
The timing, the typing, the tightening

Dear Darkness
Dear Darkness
Now it's your time to look after us
Cos we've kept your clothes
We kept your business
when everyone else was having good luck

So now it's your time
Time to pay
To pay me and the one I love
With the wordly goods you've stashed away
With all the things you took from us

P.J.Harvey, Dear Darkness
Art by Gus Fink

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Stay here while I get a curse
To give him a goat head
Make him watch me take his place
Night has brought him something worse

Will Oldham, A Sucker's Evening
Art bt David Stoupakis

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Friday, September 21, 2007

Thursday, September 20, 2007

"Sabía que mi interés era poco realista y probablemente malsano; pero permanecía tercamente, era la geografía de mi deseo. Un chico que veía a veces en el puesto de diarios de la esquina, con el pelo revuelto y aire irritado, podía hacerme estremecer al rozarme el codo con su manga. En cambio, el hombre con quien dormía me parecía impreciso y remoto".

Michael Cuningham, Una casa en el fin del mundo

Saturday, September 15, 2007


Monday, September 10, 2007

This book is dedicated to Lillian, who lives with nobody but a colony of New York roaches, whose energy has never failed despite her anxieties and her ashtma and her overweight, who is always interested in everybody, often angry, sometimes bitchy, but always involved. Lillian the abundant, the golden, the eloquent, the well and badly loved; Lillian the beautiful who thinks she is ugly, Lillian the indefatigable who thinks he is always tired.

It is dedicated to Caroline, who danced, but badly, painted but badly, jumped up from a dinner table in tears, crying that she wanted to be a person, went out and was one, despite her great beauty. Caroline who smarts at every attack, and doubts all praise, who has done great things with gentleness and humility, who assaulted the authorities with valorous love and cannot be defeated.

It is for my fariy godmother, Joy with the green eyes, whose husband decried her commonsense and belittled her mind, because she was more passionately intelligent, and more intelligently passionate than he, until she ran away from him and recovered herself, her insight and her sense of humour, and never cried again, except in compassion.

It is for Kasoundra, who makes magic out of skins and skeins and pens, who is never still, never unaware, riding her strange destiny in the wilderness of New York, loyal and bitter, as strong as a rope of still and as soft as a sigh.

For Marcia, whose mind contains everything and destroys nothing, understanding dreams and nightmares, who looks on tempests and is not shaken, who lives among the damned and is not afraid of them, a living soul among the dead.

Germaine Greer, The Female Eunuch
With sixties girl power, Liza & grandma, Nan Goldin, Asia & Grandma, Esther G.

Friday, September 07, 2007

Thursday, September 06, 2007

Las palabras de los enfermos, incluso de aquellos que son sólo capaces de balbucear, siempre son más importantes que las palabras de los sanos. Por lo demás, toda persona sana es una futura persona enferma. La noción del tiempo, ah, la noción del tiempo de los enfermos, qué tesoro escondido en una cueva en el desierto. Los enfermos, por lo demás, muerden la verdad, mientras que las personas sanas hacen como que muerden, pero en realidad sólo mastican aire. Por lo demás, por lo demás, por lo demás.

Roberto Bolaño, 2666
Art Desiree Dolron