bad seeds

28.3.13

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Elena

- Where does all this come from?

- Where do you think? Genes, Dad, heritage. Rotten seed. We're all bad seeds. Subhuman.

- Go on and have some babies. Maybe they'll turn out different.

- Different from everyone else? There's no such thing as 'different'. And I don't feel like experimenting in that area: it's painful, and expensive, and pointless.

- What is it with you and 'pointless'? Dumb excuses. You're just trying to avoid being responsible.

- Dad, it's irresponsible to produce offsprings that - you know - are going to be sick and doomed, since the parents are just as sick and doomed. And only because cosi fan tutte; because there is some apparently 'higher meaning' to it all, which is not ours to comprehend. After all we are merely the executors of this higher purpose. Shit's gotta be tasty, millions of flies can't be wrong. And, anyway, the world will end soon enough, in case you haven't heard.

- You know, it's strange, but listening to you, I feel a lot better.

- See, that's exactly why you breed: to suck the life from your children. And then you're surprised: "Where does all this come from?"

- Katya, you're such a twit sometimes.

- Thanks.

- I love you very much.



in Elena

So many constellations

27.3.13

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So many constellations that
are held out to us. I was,
when I looked at you - when? -
outside by
the other worlds.

O these ways, galactic.
O this hour, that weighed
nights over for us into
the burden of our names. It is,
I know, not true
that we lived, there moved,
blindly, no more than a breath between
there and not-there, and at times
our eyes whirred comet-like
toward things extinguished, in chasms,
and where they had burnt out,
splendid with teats, stood Time
on which already grew up
and down and away all that
is or was or will be -,

I know.
I know and you know, we knew,
we did not knew, we
were there, after all, and not there
and at times when
only the void stood between us we got
all the way to each other.



by Paul Celan

nunca mais é abril

27.3.13

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preciso de mais faixas dos The Knife para intercalar com a

já lá vão 7 anos...

the ugliness completes reality

25.3.13

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Dylan Nice
We all think a thousand thoughts every day that aren't our own, live out narratives not of our own invention, inhabit bodies preloaded with behaviors not of our choosing. Those bodies depend upon social and economic structures possessed of a psychology to which we either submit or suffer the life of an invalid. That's all pretty banal, boilerplate I'm-a-modern-human stuff, but its banality doesn't alleviate its problemness.

That said, I find the prospect of being alive, of having a life, cripplingly beautiful. The girl who bagged my groceries tonight at the Hy-Vee had a face that arrested me for a full second, long enough to provide the sufficient beauty for a great deal more suffering at my own hands or by the grip of history. I'm not indignant. I'm a little in love with how fucked up and strange everything is e.g., America, the Hy-Vee, its plastic bags swirling in the great Pacific garbage vortex. The ugliness completes reality, makes it worthy of love.

I think it's my nature to reject any prescriptions to tidy it up. I'm repulsed, on some level, by preciousness, by ploys to anesthetize the experience of life via beauties that aren't also very cruel. I guess the book was a love letter to experience, a thank you for not taking it easy on me.


Dylan Nice numa entrevista à Bookslut

Let Us Consider

24.3.13

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Let us consider the farmer who makes his straw hat his
sweetheart; or the old woman who makes a floor lamp her son;
or the young woman who has set herself the task of scraping
her shadow off a wall....

Let us consider the old woman who wore smoked cows’
tongues for shoes and walked a meadow gathering cow chips
in her apron; or a mirror grown dark with age that was given
to a blind man who spent his nights looking into it, which
saddened his mother, that her son should be so lost in
vanity....

Let us consider the man who fried roses for his dinner,
whose kitchen smelled like a burning rose garden; or the man
who disguised himself as a moth and ate his overcoat, and for
dessert served himself a chilled fedora....


by Russell Edson

everything is beautiful except when we forget our own human dignity

21.3.13

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The leaves did not stir on the trees, cicadas twanged, and the monotonous muffled sound of the sea that rose from below spoke of the peace, the eternal sleep awaiting us. So it rumbled below when there was no Yalta, no Oreanda here; so it rumbles now, and it will rumble as indifferently and as hollowly when we are no more. And in this constancy, in this complete indifference to the life and death of each of us, there lies, perhaps a pledge of our eternal salvation, of the unceasing advance of life upon earth, of unceasing movement towards perfection. Sitting beside a young woman who in the dawn seemed so lovely, Gurov, soothed and spellbound by these magical surroundings - the sea, the mountains, the clouds, the wide sky - thought how everything is really beautiful in this world when one reflects: everything except what we think or do ourselves when we forget the higher aims of life and our own human dignity.

The Lady With the Little Dog and Other Stories, 1896-1904, Anton Chekhov

untitled

21.3.13

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untitled
by Maria Loureiro

remember to pull away the coverings

20.3.13

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As I get older, I find I get more and more disagreeably solitary; In fact I foresee the day when I shall have gone too far into myself that there will no longer be anything to be seen of me at all. Will you, please, remember to pull away the coverings from time to time? Or I shall get quite lost.

Vita Sackville-West numa carta a Virginia Woolf (via)

quem canta seus mal espanta.

15.3.13

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e diz que agora para além de cantar também danço, o que tem resultado num bom antidepressivo.

fica aqui um pequeno memo com as minhas fontes de inspiração.

#1
#2
#3

I knew something was wrong

12.3.13

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the day I tried to pick up a
small piece of sunlight
and it slithered through my fingers,
not wanting to take shape.
Everything else stayed the same—
the chairs and the carpet
and all the corners
where the waiting continued.

by Dorothea Grossman (via)

cassavetes at work

4.3.13

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John Cassavetes

já disse que adoro este homem? I shall say it again.

I won't call my work entertainment. It's exploring. It's asking questions of people, constantly. How much do you feel? How much do you know? Are you aware of this? Can you cope with this? A good movie will ask you questions you don't already know the answers to. Film is an investigation of our lives. What we are. What our responsibilities in life are - if any. What we are looking for. Why would I want to make a film about something I already understand? People have said that my films are very difficult to watch, that they're experiences you are put through rather than ones you enjoy, and it's true.
(foto via criterion)

das músicas orgásmicas.

2.3.13

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acho que já ouvi esta música umas 30 vezes ontem à noite.
e retomei hoje a maratona.

Ingenue by Atoms for Peace

and it's live

2.3.13

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(aconselho a que vejam o vídeo em fullcreen)

Monica Gabriel is a Portuguese artist who did a very simple and touching video of my song "Unbedingt" ("The Boy who cried wolf"). A sort of Haïku, where a single tear is more powerful than any other word.

*thank you for your kind words Fred
**damn it, I misspelled the name of the song at the end...