Hello à tous ceux qui parlent Français. Depuis trois semaines, j'ai ouvert un blog qui parle d'art, de photographie, de musique, de gens de talents et un tout petit peu de pub. Venez jeter un œil et si ça vous plait, abonnez-vous avec la case prévue à cet effet et vous pouvez même le recommander à vos amis avec la case prévue à cet effet juste en dessous de la précédente. Sur le blog, j'ai déjà parlé de UndePlus, Akinao Saito et de Quizz que vous connaissez peut-être de Flickr et d'autres Flickristes y seront bientôt mis en lumière :)
Hello everyone, for those who speak a little french, i now have a blog in which i talk about art, photography, music, talented people and a slice of advertising. You can join by adding your e-mail in "Inscrivez-vous" and recommend it to your friends below the inscription button on the right. I already talked about three of my favorites stars of flickr : Quizz, Akinao Saito and UndePlus and there are more to come.
"Un día estaba en el bar, en el intermedio entre dos carreras, y vi a esta mujer. Dios o quien sea no para de crear mujeres y de lanzarlas al mundo, y el culo de ésta es demasiado grande y las tetas de esta otra son demasiado pequeñas, y esta otra está chiflada y aquélla es una histérica, y aquella otra es una fanática religiosa y ésa de más allá lee hojas de té, y ésta no puede controlar sus pedos, y la otra tiene una narizota, y ésta tiene piernas como palillos...
Pero de vez en cuando surge una mujer toda en sazón, una mujer que estalla fuera de sus ropas... una criatura sexual, una maldición, el acabóse. Miré y allí estaba, en el fondo del bar"
coincidenze.. come aprire un vecchio quaderno di appunti di storia romana e trovare dentro due segnalibri che non ricordavi più.
nel mattino umido Ade applaude con mani segnate dall' herpes e
una donna canta alla radio, la sua voce giunge arrampicandosi
sul fumo, e il fumo esala vapori...
mi sento sola, canta la donna, tu non sei
mio e ciò mi fa sentire così male,
questo essere me...
sento macchine per la strada, è come un mare lontano
infangato di gente
mentre dietro l'altra spalla, lontano sulla Settima strada
vicino a Western Island
c'è l'ospedale, quella casa di agonia-
lenzuola e padelle e braccia e teste e
morti lente;
tutto è così deliziosamente orribile:
l'arte del coronamento: la vita che mangia
la vita...
una volta ho visto in sogno un serpente che inghiottiva la sua stessa
coda, inghiottiva e inghiottiva finché
è arrivato a metà dell'anello, e là si è fermato e
è rimasto così, si era pappato
sé stesso. bella fregatura.
abbiamo solo noi stessi per tirare avanti, ed è
abbastanza...
scendo giù a prendere un'altra bottiglia, accendo la
tivù e c'è Gregory Peck che finge di essere
F. Scott Fitzgerald ed è tutto agitato e sta leggendo il suo
manoscritto alla sua signora.
Spengo la
tivù.
che razza di scrittore è quello? uno che legge le sue pagine a
una donna? è uno stupro...
torno su e i miei due gatti mi vengono dietro, sono
buoni compagni, non litighiamo mai, non
discutiamo, ascoltiamo la stessa musica, non votiamo mai alle
presidenziali.
uno dei gatti, quello grosso, salta sullo schienale
della mia sedia, mi si strofina sulle spalle e
sul collo.
"niente da fare," gli dico, "non ho intenzione
di leggerti questa
poesia."
lui salta sul pavimento ed esce sul
balcone e il suo compagno
lo segue.
siedono e guardano la notte; siamo gente
con la testa a posto qui.
questi mattini presto quando quasi tutti
dormono, piccole cimici notturne, affarini con le ali
entrano in casa, e vorticano e piroettano.
la macchina da scrivere elettro-ronza, e dopo aver
aperto e assaggiato la bottiglia nuova scrivo la prossima
riga. potete
leggerlo alla vostra signora e lei probabilmente vi dirà
che è assurdo. magari starà
leggendo 'Tenera è la
notte'.
the canaries were there, and the lemon tree
and the old woman with warts;
and I was there, a child
and I touched the piano keys
as they talked -
but not too loudly
for they had things to say,
the three of them;
and I watched them cover the canaries at night
with flour sacks
"so they can sleep, my dear."
I played the piano quietly
one note at a time,
the canaries under their sacks,
and there were pepper trees,
pepper trees brushing the roof like rain
and hanging outside the windows
like green rain,
and they talked, the three of them
sitting in a warm night's semicircle
and the keys were black and white
and responded to my fingers
like the locked-in magic
of a waiting, grown-up world;
and now they're gone, the three of them
and I am old:
pirate feet have trod
the clean-thatched floors
of my soul,
and the canaries sing no more.
Charles Bukowski
The People Look Like Flowers At Last
2007
"Pain is strange. A cat killing a bird, a car accident, a fire... Pain arrives, BANG, and there it is, it sits on you. It's real. And to anybody watching, you look foolish. Like you've suddenly become an idiot. There's no cure for it unless you know somebody who understands how you feel, and knows how to help."
Charles B., in Women
"I think you deserve some love," she said. "I had a dream about you. I opened your chest like a cabinet, it had doors, and when I opened the doors I saw all kinds of soft things inside you--teddy bears, tiny fuzzy animals, all these soft, cuddly things. Then I had a dream about this other man. He walked up to me and handed me some pieces of paper. He was a writer. I took the pieces of paper and looked at them. And the pieces of paper had cancer. His writing had cancer. I go by my dreams. You deserve some love."
Charles B., in Women
I opened "Slouching Toward Nirvana" randomly to page 17. I tried reading "an easy way to die," but the word "food" scribbled in pencil kept bugging me. It was a very feminine, similar to my mother's handwriting. In fact, I just assume all women--espeically all mothers have this handwriting. Only my handwriting is still chicken scratch, another lack of femininity I guess.
It sat there mocking me. And why "food?" Worse came the last two verses highlighted with a single vertical scratch to their left. Every poem, every page: writing. It's all the same handwriting. Sometimes a check mark as if to say "you must read this!" Worse are when the culprit scratched "Funny!" next to selected poems. It's ruined the book for me. I hate being told in a passive aggressive manner how to think. They could have been funny poems, they could have been brilliant, but I can't focus on much else other than shaking the person who wrote all over this library book. I look over the dates the book has been checked out: was it this June? perhaps February 2007. I doubt she'd be the first borrower in April 2005. That's always risky. The librarians will know it was you.
I can't help but think this woman thinks she knows poetry. She's probably a stay-at-home mom who's easily wowed by pictures of kitty cats and sunsets. She wants everyone to have her reaction to Bukowski's poetry. Rather than marking her own copy, I'm forced to read her commentary.
