30 oct 2009
CAPTURING REALITY : THE ART OF DOCUMENTARY
Web oficial del documental
Para realizar Capturing Reality, la directora Pepita Ferrari entrevistó a un número considerable de documentalistas. Aparecen, entre otros, nada menos que Hubert Sauper, Jennifer Fox, Kim Longinotto, Albert Maysles, Errol Morris, Patricio Guzmán y Heddy Honigmann. El objetivo consiste en reflexionar sobre el arte de documentar la realidad, interrogarse por los móviles que conducen a tratar ciertos tópicos específicos e indagar en los mecanismos propios del lenguaje cinematográfico para crear una mirada personal sobre el mundo. Las entrevistas, acompañadas por extractos de películas, ilustran los argumentos de manera eficaz gracias a un montaje impecable. Un asunto importante de discusión es la relación que se da entre la autenticidad de una película y la integridad del cineasta, así como su compromiso ético. Queda claro que un documental puede tomar diversos caminos formales, pero que cada director mira a su propia manera un modo conveniente de testimoniar algún aspecto de la realidad, materia principal de este prolífico género.
28 oct 2009
Extracto
Pues mientras nos falta lo que deseamos,
nos parece que supera a todo en valor;
pero cuando fue alcanzado, se presenta otra cosa,
y así siempre estamos presos de la misma sed,
nosotros que anhelamos la vida.
Lucrecio
(en De rerum natura, III, 1095)
nos parece que supera a todo en valor;
pero cuando fue alcanzado, se presenta otra cosa,
y así siempre estamos presos de la misma sed,
nosotros que anhelamos la vida.
Lucrecio
(en De rerum natura, III, 1095)
27 oct 2009
Ver Documental Religulous (2008)
Religulous es un documental dirigido por Larry Charles y protagonizado por el humorista estadounidense Bill Maher, presentador de Real Time with Bill Maher en la cadena HBO. Según Maher, el título de la película es una mezcla entre las palabras «Religion» (religión) y «Ridiculous» (ridículo) (en español sería relígulo). Con esto quiere dar a entender el tono humorístico del documental, que pretende ser una sátira de las religiones y los problemas asociados.
Famoso por su postura contraria a la religión, Bill Maher explora distintos puntos de vista al respecto a través de sus viajes a distintos destinos religiosos por el mundo, tales como Jerusalén o el Vaticano entrevistando a creyentes de todo tipo y condición, como Judíos por Jesús, musulmanes, polígamos, satanistas, e incluso a Raël del Movimiento raeliano.
En el documental, Maher también entrevista al neurocientífico Dr. Andrew Newberg, autor de «Why We Believe What We Believe» (¿Por qué creemos en lo que creemos?), que se dedica a practicar escáneres cerebrales a personas mientras rezan, meditan o hablan otros idiomas. El productor del documental es Thousand Words y lo distribuye Lionsgate. En un principio, se pensó en un estreno mundial que coincidiera con las vacaciones de Pascua de 2008, pero debido a retrasos en la post-producción, por problemas con la huelga de guionistas, se amplió la fecha del estreno hasta julio. Y recientemente, se volvió a mover la fecha hasta el 3 de octubre de 2008.
Director: Larry Charles
Actor: Bill Maher
Duración: 1:40:57
Click here for full English version - no subtitles:
Free Movies & Documentaries - Religulous (2008)
Sin Título
Mis zapatos se ordenan solos en la noche.
Son mis días los que desordenan pies y sendas.Me calza Dios y me desgasto.
He roto los cordones y ando sola en el mundo.
Soy la horma del destino.
Doy tumbos.
me distraigo,
vuelvo sobre mis pasos
y si me clavo alguna espina
dejo que la absorba mi cuerpo.
María Gabriela Lovera
(En Atrabiliario, Artifex, Madrid, 2009)
Turin, 1837-39. Lithograph. National Library of Medicine
26 oct 2009
Uno para
Uno para quien el yo debería ser
como una moneda gastada:
ahora en mi mano
ahora en la tuya
ahora cae al suelo
y se perdió
Jorge Riechmann
(En Cambio de Siglo: antología de poesía española 1990-2007, Hiperión, Madrid, 2007)
como una moneda gastada:
ahora en mi mano
ahora en la tuya
ahora cae al suelo
y se perdió
Jorge Riechmann
(En Cambio de Siglo: antología de poesía española 1990-2007, Hiperión, Madrid, 2007)
23 oct 2009
De Franz Kafka a Milena (entre 1922 y 1923)
"Por favor, escriba la dirección con un poco más de claridad, una vez que la carta está dentro del sobre pasa a ser casi propiedad mía y usted debería ser más cuidadosa con la propiedad ajena, debería tratarla con más sentido de la responsabilidad. Tak. Por otra parte, tengo la impresión - aunque no puedo llegar a precisarla - de que una de mis cartas se ha perdido. ¿La típica ansiedad de los judíos? ¡Cuando lo que debería temer es que las cartas lleguen a destino!
¿De dónde habrá surgido la idea de que las personas pueden comunicarse mediante cartas? Uno puede pensar en una persona distante y puede tocar a una persona cercana; todo lo demás queda más allá de las fuerzas humanas. Escribir cartas, sin embargo, significa desnudarse ante los fantasmas, que las esperan con avidez. Los besos por escrito no llegan a su destino, se los beben por el camino los fantasmas. Con este abundante alimento se multiplican en forma desmesurada. La humanidad lo percibe y lucha por evitarlo. Y para eliminar en lo posible lo fantasmal entre las personas y lograr una comunicación natural, para recuperar la paz de las almas, ha inventado el ferrocarril, el automóvil, el aeroplano. Pero ya es tarde: son evidentemente inventos hechos en el momento del desastre. El bando opuesto es tanto más calmo y poderoso; después del correo inventó el telégrafo, el teléfono, la radio. Los fantasmas no se morirán de hambre, y nosotros, en cambio, pereceremos."
Extracto tomado de: http://www.cartas-sin-sellos.co
¿De dónde habrá surgido la idea de que las personas pueden comunicarse mediante cartas? Uno puede pensar en una persona distante y puede tocar a una persona cercana; todo lo demás queda más allá de las fuerzas humanas. Escribir cartas, sin embargo, significa desnudarse ante los fantasmas, que las esperan con avidez. Los besos por escrito no llegan a su destino, se los beben por el camino los fantasmas. Con este abundante alimento se multiplican en forma desmesurada. La humanidad lo percibe y lucha por evitarlo. Y para eliminar en lo posible lo fantasmal entre las personas y lograr una comunicación natural, para recuperar la paz de las almas, ha inventado el ferrocarril, el automóvil, el aeroplano. Pero ya es tarde: son evidentemente inventos hechos en el momento del desastre. El bando opuesto es tanto más calmo y poderoso; después del correo inventó el telégrafo, el teléfono, la radio. Los fantasmas no se morirán de hambre, y nosotros, en cambio, pereceremos."
Extracto tomado de: http://www.cartas-sin-sellos.co
22 oct 2009
MOOG (documental 2004)
ENLACE PARA VERLO:
http://v.youku.com/v_show/id_XNDQ0MjQ4MzI=.html
Moog the documentary
"Bob Moog (1934-2005) invented and built electronic musical instruments for over half a century. From his workshops in upstate New York and later in rural North Carolina, Moog shaped musical culture with some of the most inspiring instruments ever created.
(fuente del texto: http://www.zu33.com/moog/)
http://v.youku.com/v_show/id_XNDQ0MjQ4MzI=.html
Moog the documentary
"Bob Moog (1934-2005) invented and built electronic musical instruments for over half a century. From his workshops in upstate New York and later in rural North Carolina, Moog shaped musical culture with some of the most inspiring instruments ever created.
Moog explains that he "can feel what's going on in a piece of electronic equipment... it's something between discovering and witnessing."
And he is convinced that many musicians come to "feel" a circuit in a similar way. "They make contact." In fact, musicians make such strong emotional connections with the electronics inside a Moog synthesizer that Moog himself has reached cult hero status.
Moog not only made prodigious contributions to modern music and culture, but he became a character within an unfolding "American maverick inventor" mythology. Moog certainly walked and talked the "mad scientist" part, complete with the fly-away white hair, intense eyes, eccentric mannerisms and a head full of stories.
This feature documentary film – by filmmaker/musician Hans Fjellestad and the producer team behind Frontier Life (2002) – explores Moog's collaborations with musicians over the years, and his ideas about creativity, design, interactivity and spirituality. The film was shot on location in Asheville, New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Tokyo and London, featuring appearances by Keith Emerson, Walter Sear, Gershon Kinsgley, Jean-Jacques Perrey & Luke Vibert, Rick Wakeman, DJ Spooky, Herb Deutsch, Bernie Worrell, Pamelia Kurstin, Tino Corp. with Charlie Clouser, Money Mark, Mix Master Mike, and an eclectic mix of performers.
Artists such as Stereolab, Meat Beat Manifesto, Tortoise, Money Mark, Luke Vibert & Jean-Jacques Perrey, 33, Moog Cookbook, Plastiq Phantom, Psilonaut, Bernie Worrell & Bootsy Collins, Roger O'Donnell, The Album Leaf, Pete Devriese, Bostich, Charlie Clouser, Baiyon, Suzanne Ciani, Gershon Kingsley, Doug McKechnie, Electric Skychurch and others created original music produced on Moog instruments for the soundtrack.
(fuente del texto: http://www.zu33.com/moog/)
Se conoce el silencio...
Se conoce el silencio
Por su presencia opaca
Por su llenarlo todo con ausencia,
Con números escritos en una servilleta
Robada en un café.
Con nombres, con heridas.
Pero no basta conocerlo.
No basta hundir la frente en su cintura
Ni besar suavemente sus pupilas
Ni sus rendidos labios.
Vencedor de las sombras el silencio es la vida
Y habrá que construirlo con sangre y con derrotas,
Cuerpo a cuerpo,
Hasta encontrar la puerta del laberinto.
María Cinta Montagut
(En Web A Media Voz)
Por su presencia opaca
Por su llenarlo todo con ausencia,
Con números escritos en una servilleta
Robada en un café.
Con nombres, con heridas.
Pero no basta conocerlo.
No basta hundir la frente en su cintura
Ni besar suavemente sus pupilas
Ni sus rendidos labios.
Vencedor de las sombras el silencio es la vida
Y habrá que construirlo con sangre y con derrotas,
Cuerpo a cuerpo,
Hasta encontrar la puerta del laberinto.
María Cinta Montagut
(En Web A Media Voz)
Swan Reflection, Lyme Regis, Dorset, England, 1977
21 oct 2009
Documental In the Street (c1948)
Parte I:
Parte II:
"This film if it was directed at all, was 'directed' by the legendary New York writer, screenplay writer, critic and reviewer James Agee. Siegfried Kracauer in his book Theory of Film wrote an evocative appreciation of the film: On the one hand, this film is nothing but a reportage pure and simple; its shots of Harlem scenes are so loosely juxtaposed that they almost give the impression of a random sample. A child behind a window is seen licking the pane; a woman with a terrible face passes by; a young man languidly watches the spectacle in the street; Negro children, intoxicated by their Halloween masks, dance and romp about with complete self-abandon. On the other hand, this reporting job is done with unconcealed compassion for the people depicted: the camera dwells on them tenderly; they are not meant to stand for anything but themselves (Kracauer 203). " (fuente: http://www.imdb.com)
Parte II:
"This film if it was directed at all, was 'directed' by the legendary New York writer, screenplay writer, critic and reviewer James Agee. Siegfried Kracauer in his book Theory of Film wrote an evocative appreciation of the film: On the one hand, this film is nothing but a reportage pure and simple; its shots of Harlem scenes are so loosely juxtaposed that they almost give the impression of a random sample. A child behind a window is seen licking the pane; a woman with a terrible face passes by; a young man languidly watches the spectacle in the street; Negro children, intoxicated by their Halloween masks, dance and romp about with complete self-abandon. On the other hand, this reporting job is done with unconcealed compassion for the people depicted: the camera dwells on them tenderly; they are not meant to stand for anything but themselves (Kracauer 203). " (fuente: http://www.imdb.com)
Las rosas de Saadi
He querido esta mañana traerte rosas;
pero puse tantas atadas a mi cintura
que los ajustados nudos no pudieron retenerlas.
Los nudos se soltaron. Las rosas volaron al viento;
se fueron todas al mar.
Se fueron con el agua para no volver.
La onda pareció roja y como encendida.
Esta noche, mi vestido está aún perfumado...
Respira en mí el fragante recuerdo.
*******
(J'ai voulu ce matin te rapporter des roses;
Mais j'en avais tant pris dans mes ceintures closes
Que les noeuds trop serrés n'ont pu les contenir.
Les noeuds ont éclaté. Les roses envolées;
Dans le vent, à la mer s'en sont toutes allées.
Elles ont suivi l'eau pour ne plus revenir;
La vague en a paru rouge et comme enflammée.
Ce soir, ma robe encore en est tout embaumée...
Respires-en sur moi l'odorant souvenir.)
Marceline Desbordes-Valmorer - Poeta Maldita
(En Poésies inédites
Fuente de la traducción: http://www.taringa.net
Fuente del original: http://espanol.agonia.net)
pero puse tantas atadas a mi cintura
que los ajustados nudos no pudieron retenerlas.
Los nudos se soltaron. Las rosas volaron al viento;
se fueron todas al mar.
Se fueron con el agua para no volver.
La onda pareció roja y como encendida.
Esta noche, mi vestido está aún perfumado...
Respira en mí el fragante recuerdo.
*******
(J'ai voulu ce matin te rapporter des roses;
Mais j'en avais tant pris dans mes ceintures closes
Que les noeuds trop serrés n'ont pu les contenir.
Les noeuds ont éclaté. Les roses envolées;
Dans le vent, à la mer s'en sont toutes allées.
Elles ont suivi l'eau pour ne plus revenir;
La vague en a paru rouge et comme enflammée.
Ce soir, ma robe encore en est tout embaumée...
Respires-en sur moi l'odorant souvenir.)
Marceline Desbordes-Valmorer - Poeta Maldita
(En Poésies inédites
Fuente de la traducción: http://www.taringa.net
Fuente del original: http://espanol.agonia.net)
20 oct 2009
19 oct 2009
Fragmentos
Los acontecimientos son Hombres. Las circunstancias son gente. Una batalla, una cena, una mirada, un beso...
...Nada existe, todo acontece...
...Todos los días la Materia me maltrata. Mi sensibilidad es una llama al viento.
...Paso por una calle y estoy viendo en el rostro de los transeúntes, no la expresión que ellos realmente tienen, sino la expresión que tendrían para conmigo si supiesen mi vida y cómo soy ...
...Tengo del amor profundo y del uso provechoso de él un concepto superficial y decorativo. Estoy sujeto a las pasiones visuales. Guardo intacto el corazón dado a más irreales destinos...
...Yazgo mi vida...
Fernando Pessoa
(En Escritos sobre ocultismo y masonería, Editorial Alfama, Málaga, 2008)
...Nada existe, todo acontece...
...Todos los días la Materia me maltrata. Mi sensibilidad es una llama al viento.
...Paso por una calle y estoy viendo en el rostro de los transeúntes, no la expresión que ellos realmente tienen, sino la expresión que tendrían para conmigo si supiesen mi vida y cómo soy ...
...Tengo del amor profundo y del uso provechoso de él un concepto superficial y decorativo. Estoy sujeto a las pasiones visuales. Guardo intacto el corazón dado a más irreales destinos...
...Yazgo mi vida...
Fernando Pessoa
(En Escritos sobre ocultismo y masonería, Editorial Alfama, Málaga, 2008)
17 oct 2009
Cortísimos Poemas
Definición
La luz:
la piel del mundo.
Autoanálisis
He cometido un error fatal
--y lo peor de todo es que no sé cuál.
Lluvia
Toda la noche se ha poblado de agua.
Contra el muro del día
el mundo llueve.
Luz
Sobre un espacio del segundo
el tiempo
deja caer la luz sobre las cosas.
Jardín
El viento trae la lluvia.
En el jardín
las plantas se estremecen.
Mirada
Si se extiende la luz
toma la forma
de lo que está inventando la mirada.
Sucesión
Aunque renazca el Sol
los días no vuelven.
José Emilio Pacheco
(En Gota de lluvia y otros poemas, Ediciones Era, México 2005)
La luz:
la piel del mundo.
Autoanálisis
He cometido un error fatal
--y lo peor de todo es que no sé cuál.
Lluvia
Toda la noche se ha poblado de agua.
Contra el muro del día
el mundo llueve.
Luz
Sobre un espacio del segundo
el tiempo
deja caer la luz sobre las cosas.
Jardín
El viento trae la lluvia.
En el jardín
las plantas se estremecen.
Mirada
Si se extiende la luz
toma la forma
de lo que está inventando la mirada.
Sucesión
Aunque renazca el Sol
los días no vuelven.
José Emilio Pacheco
(En Gota de lluvia y otros poemas, Ediciones Era, México 2005)
15 oct 2009
Sin Título
La medida crepuscular baja los párpados
no percibo quién pisa
ni el huésped que altera su peso
tengo la sonrisa del nicho
el frío de los hilos
temo que al recoger mis pasos
salga herida
María Emilia López Merchán
(En El Huésped, Editorial El Pez Soluble, Caracas, 2009)
*******
Ver más publicaciones de El Pez Soluble
no percibo quién pisa
ni el huésped que altera su peso
tengo la sonrisa del nicho
el frío de los hilos
temo que al recoger mis pasos
salga herida
María Emilia López Merchán
(En El Huésped, Editorial El Pez Soluble, Caracas, 2009)
*******
Ver más publicaciones de El Pez Soluble
14 oct 2009
Herta Müller: The Land of Green Plums (extracto en inglés)
I was no longer in the country. I was in Germany and received Captain Pjele's death threats by mail or by long-distance telephone. The letterheads showed two crossed axes. Each letter contained a black hair. Whose?
I looked at the letters closely, as if the killers Captain Pjele would send were sitting between the lines, looking up into my eyes.
The telephone rang, and I picked it up. It was Tereza.
Send me some money, I want to visit you.
Are you allowed to travel?
I think so, yes.
That was our conversation.
Then Tereza came to visit. I met her at the station. Her face was hot, my eyes were moist. On that station platform, I wanted t o touch Tereza everywhere at once. My hands were too small for me, I saw the ceiling above Tereza's hair and felt myself floating up toward it. Tereza's suitcase pulled on my arm, but I carried it as if it were full of air. Not until we were on the bus did notice that my hand had been rubbed red by the suitcase handle. I grasped the handrail where Tereza had her hand. I felt Tereza's rings within my hand. Tereza didn't look out the window at the city, she looked me in the face. We laughed as if the wind was giggling through the open window.
In the kitchen Tereza said: Do you know who sent me? Pjele. There was no other way I could have come. She drank a glass of water.
Why did you come?
I wanted to see you.
What did you promise him?
Nothing.
Why are you here?
I wanted to see you. She drank another glass of water.
I said: I'd be perfectly right to throw you out.
Singing in front of Captain Pjele was nothing compared to this, I said. Undressing in front of him didn't make me as naked as you have.
But it can't be such a bad thing that I want to see you, said Tereza. I'll make up something to tell Pjele, something of no use whatsoever. We can make it up together, you and I.
You and I. Tereza had no sense that you and I were finished. That you and I couldn't be spoken in one breath. That I was unable to shut my mouth because my heart was pounding in it.
We drank cofee. She drank it like water, she never let the cup leave her hand. Maybe she's thirsty from the trip, I thought to myself. Maybe she's been thirsty ever since I went to Germany. I saw the white handle between her lips. She drank so quickly, it was as though she wanted to drink up and leave of her own accord. Send her packing, I thought to myself; but she sat there, feeling her face with her hand. How can you send someone packing just as that someone is beginning to stay?
For me it was like being in front of the seamstress's mirror again. I saw Tereza in pieces: two little eyes, a long neck, pudgy fingers. Time stood still; Tereza should go bau she should leave her face here, because I missed it so. She showed me the scar under her arm where they'd cut out the nut. I wanted to take the scar in my hand and stroke it, without Tereza. I wanted to rip my love out of me, throw it on the floor and stamp on it. Quickly lie down where it was lying and let it crawl back through my eyes into my head. I wanted to pull the guilt off of Tereza as if it were a badly made dress.
Her thirsty quenched, she drank a second cup of coffee more slowly than the first. She wanted to stay for a month. I asked about Kurt. He's got nothing but the slaughterhouse in his head, said Tereza, talks about nothing but drinking blood. I don't think he likes me.
Tereza wore my blouses, my dresses and skirts. She went into town with my clothes instead of with me. The first evening I gave her the key and some money. I said: I don't have any time. She was so thick-skinned, my excuse just bounced off her. She went off on her own and came back with bags full of shopping.
In the evening I found her next to the bathtub, about to wash my clothes. I said: It's all right, you don't have to give them back.
After Tereza had left the house, I went out too. Apart from the pounding in my throat, I could feel nothing. I stuck to the surrounding streets. I avoided shops, so I wouldn't run into Tereza. I didn't stay out long, I came back before she did.
Tereza's suitcase was locked. I found the key under the carpet. In the inner compartment of the suitcase I fund a telephone number and a new key. I went to my own front door, the key fit. I dialed the number. A voice said: Romanian Embassy. I locked the suitcase and put the suitcase key back under the carpet. I put the frontdoor key and the telephone number in my desk drawer.
I heard the key in the door, Tereza's footfall in the corridor, the door to her room opening. I heard the rustle of shopping bags, the door to her room, the kitchen door, the refrigerator door. I heard the clink of knife and fork, the running tap, the fridge door slamming shut, the kitchen door, the door to her room. I swallowed hard at each noise. I felt hands taking hold of me, every noise gripped me.
Then my door opened. Tereza stood there with a half-eaten apple in her hand and said: You've been in my suitcase.
I took the key out of the desk drawer. Is this your something of no use whatsoever to Pjele? I said. You've been to get my key copied. Your train leaves tonight.
My tongue felt heavier than the rest of me. Tereza dropped her apple. She packed her suitcase.
We went to the bus stop. There was an old woman waiting there with a square handbag and her ticket in her hand.
She walked up and down saying: There ought to be one any minute. Then I saw a taxi and flagged it down, so that no bus would ever come, so that I wouldn't have to sit or stand there waiting with Tereza.
I climbed in next to the driver.
We stood on the platform, she wishing she could stay another three weeks and I wishing that she could vanish on the spot. There were no goodbyes. Then the train pulled out, and there was no hand waving, either inside or outside.
The track were empty, my legs felt weaker than two threads. I walked home rom the station. I took me half the night. I wished I would never get there. I don't sleep at night anymore.
I wanted love to grow back, like the grass when it's mown down. To grow differently, if need be, like children's teeth, like hair, like fingernails. To spring up at will, wild and untended. The chill of the sheets made me shudder, and so did the warmth that followed when I lay down.
When Tereza died, six months after her return home, I wanted to give my memory away; but to whom? Tereza's last letter arrived after her death:
Now all I can do is breathe like the vegetables in the garden. I have a physical longing for you.
My love for Tereza did grow back. I forced it to, and I had to protect myself. To protect myself from Tereza and me, the way we had been before her visit. I had to tie ma hands. They wanted to write and tell Tereza that I still remembered the two of us. That the cold inside me stirs up love, against all reason.
After Tereza had left, I spoke with Edgar. Ha said: You shouldn't write to her. You've drawn a line. If you write and tell her how much you're suffering, it will start all over again. Then she'll come back to visit you. I think Tereza's known Pjele as long as she's known you. If not longer.
Why and when and how does tightly tied love get mixed up with murder? I felt like shrieking curses beyond my command.
He who loves and leaves shall feel the wrath of God God shall punish him with the pinching beetle the howling wind the dust of the earth.
Shrieking curses, but in whose ear?
Today the grass listens when I speak of love. It seems to me that this word isn't honest even with itself.
Herta Müller
From The Land of Green Plums, 1993
Translated from the German by Michael Hofmann
Fuente: http://www.pwf.cz
I looked at the letters closely, as if the killers Captain Pjele would send were sitting between the lines, looking up into my eyes.
The telephone rang, and I picked it up. It was Tereza.
Send me some money, I want to visit you.
Are you allowed to travel?
I think so, yes.
That was our conversation.
Then Tereza came to visit. I met her at the station. Her face was hot, my eyes were moist. On that station platform, I wanted t o touch Tereza everywhere at once. My hands were too small for me, I saw the ceiling above Tereza's hair and felt myself floating up toward it. Tereza's suitcase pulled on my arm, but I carried it as if it were full of air. Not until we were on the bus did notice that my hand had been rubbed red by the suitcase handle. I grasped the handrail where Tereza had her hand. I felt Tereza's rings within my hand. Tereza didn't look out the window at the city, she looked me in the face. We laughed as if the wind was giggling through the open window.
In the kitchen Tereza said: Do you know who sent me? Pjele. There was no other way I could have come. She drank a glass of water.
Why did you come?
I wanted to see you.
What did you promise him?
Nothing.
Why are you here?
I wanted to see you. She drank another glass of water.
I said: I'd be perfectly right to throw you out.
Singing in front of Captain Pjele was nothing compared to this, I said. Undressing in front of him didn't make me as naked as you have.
But it can't be such a bad thing that I want to see you, said Tereza. I'll make up something to tell Pjele, something of no use whatsoever. We can make it up together, you and I.
You and I. Tereza had no sense that you and I were finished. That you and I couldn't be spoken in one breath. That I was unable to shut my mouth because my heart was pounding in it.
We drank cofee. She drank it like water, she never let the cup leave her hand. Maybe she's thirsty from the trip, I thought to myself. Maybe she's been thirsty ever since I went to Germany. I saw the white handle between her lips. She drank so quickly, it was as though she wanted to drink up and leave of her own accord. Send her packing, I thought to myself; but she sat there, feeling her face with her hand. How can you send someone packing just as that someone is beginning to stay?
For me it was like being in front of the seamstress's mirror again. I saw Tereza in pieces: two little eyes, a long neck, pudgy fingers. Time stood still; Tereza should go bau she should leave her face here, because I missed it so. She showed me the scar under her arm where they'd cut out the nut. I wanted to take the scar in my hand and stroke it, without Tereza. I wanted to rip my love out of me, throw it on the floor and stamp on it. Quickly lie down where it was lying and let it crawl back through my eyes into my head. I wanted to pull the guilt off of Tereza as if it were a badly made dress.
Her thirsty quenched, she drank a second cup of coffee more slowly than the first. She wanted to stay for a month. I asked about Kurt. He's got nothing but the slaughterhouse in his head, said Tereza, talks about nothing but drinking blood. I don't think he likes me.
Tereza wore my blouses, my dresses and skirts. She went into town with my clothes instead of with me. The first evening I gave her the key and some money. I said: I don't have any time. She was so thick-skinned, my excuse just bounced off her. She went off on her own and came back with bags full of shopping.
In the evening I found her next to the bathtub, about to wash my clothes. I said: It's all right, you don't have to give them back.
After Tereza had left the house, I went out too. Apart from the pounding in my throat, I could feel nothing. I stuck to the surrounding streets. I avoided shops, so I wouldn't run into Tereza. I didn't stay out long, I came back before she did.
Tereza's suitcase was locked. I found the key under the carpet. In the inner compartment of the suitcase I fund a telephone number and a new key. I went to my own front door, the key fit. I dialed the number. A voice said: Romanian Embassy. I locked the suitcase and put the suitcase key back under the carpet. I put the frontdoor key and the telephone number in my desk drawer.
I heard the key in the door, Tereza's footfall in the corridor, the door to her room opening. I heard the rustle of shopping bags, the door to her room, the kitchen door, the refrigerator door. I heard the clink of knife and fork, the running tap, the fridge door slamming shut, the kitchen door, the door to her room. I swallowed hard at each noise. I felt hands taking hold of me, every noise gripped me.
Then my door opened. Tereza stood there with a half-eaten apple in her hand and said: You've been in my suitcase.
I took the key out of the desk drawer. Is this your something of no use whatsoever to Pjele? I said. You've been to get my key copied. Your train leaves tonight.
My tongue felt heavier than the rest of me. Tereza dropped her apple. She packed her suitcase.
We went to the bus stop. There was an old woman waiting there with a square handbag and her ticket in her hand.
She walked up and down saying: There ought to be one any minute. Then I saw a taxi and flagged it down, so that no bus would ever come, so that I wouldn't have to sit or stand there waiting with Tereza.
I climbed in next to the driver.
We stood on the platform, she wishing she could stay another three weeks and I wishing that she could vanish on the spot. There were no goodbyes. Then the train pulled out, and there was no hand waving, either inside or outside.
The track were empty, my legs felt weaker than two threads. I walked home rom the station. I took me half the night. I wished I would never get there. I don't sleep at night anymore.
I wanted love to grow back, like the grass when it's mown down. To grow differently, if need be, like children's teeth, like hair, like fingernails. To spring up at will, wild and untended. The chill of the sheets made me shudder, and so did the warmth that followed when I lay down.
When Tereza died, six months after her return home, I wanted to give my memory away; but to whom? Tereza's last letter arrived after her death:
Now all I can do is breathe like the vegetables in the garden. I have a physical longing for you.
My love for Tereza did grow back. I forced it to, and I had to protect myself. To protect myself from Tereza and me, the way we had been before her visit. I had to tie ma hands. They wanted to write and tell Tereza that I still remembered the two of us. That the cold inside me stirs up love, against all reason.
After Tereza had left, I spoke with Edgar. Ha said: You shouldn't write to her. You've drawn a line. If you write and tell her how much you're suffering, it will start all over again. Then she'll come back to visit you. I think Tereza's known Pjele as long as she's known you. If not longer.
Why and when and how does tightly tied love get mixed up with murder? I felt like shrieking curses beyond my command.
He who loves and leaves shall feel the wrath of God God shall punish him with the pinching beetle the howling wind the dust of the earth.
Shrieking curses, but in whose ear?
Today the grass listens when I speak of love. It seems to me that this word isn't honest even with itself.
Herta Müller
From The Land of Green Plums, 1993
Translated from the German by Michael Hofmann
Fuente: http://www.pwf.cz
13 oct 2009
VIDEOGIOCO by Donato Sansone
VIDEOGIOCO by Donato Sansone from Enrico Ascoli - Sound Design on Vimeo.
Donato Sansone en MySpace***
Gracias Jero por la recomendación en FB.
Textos Breves
AMIENS
La pálida catedral de Amiens. Un cadáver de arena entre las casas.
ILUSIÓN
Cuando uno va, siempre va acompañado; cuando vuelve, generalmente lo hace solo.
ANGUSTIA
No se va el frío. Las cosas no ocurren ni dejan de ocurrir.
ESTRATEGIA
Cerré los ojos para que nadie me viera.
Óscar Peyrou
(En Revista Lateral, Febrero 2005, Nº 122)
(Paint taken off from the gallery's wall, and a scale model created completely by the paint scrapings)
9 oct 2009
Ausencia temporal
Por motivos triraciales propios a mi voluntad, me retiro hasta el martes 13 (¡UUUUUGHHH!) de la intensa actividad bloguística. ¡Vive le métissage!
6 oct 2009
5 oct 2009
IV
Hay días que parecen fotocopias.
Las segrega de modo compulsivo
una máquina neutra.
Aurora Luque
(En Cambio de siglo: antología de poesía española 1990-2007, Hiperión, Madrid, 2007)
Las segrega de modo compulsivo
una máquina neutra.
Aurora Luque
(En Cambio de siglo: antología de poesía española 1990-2007, Hiperión, Madrid, 2007)
4 oct 2009
3 Mini ficciones
La Que No Está
Ninguna tiene tanto éxito como La Que No Está. Aunque todavía es joven, muchos años de práctica consciente la han perfeccionado en el sutilísimo arte de la ausencia. Los que preguntan por ella terminan por conformarse con otra cualquiera, a la que toman distraídos, tratando de imaginar que tienen entre sus brazos a la mejor, a la única, a La Que No Está.
Doncella y unicornio I
Hay quienes suponen agotado el tema del unicornio y la doncella por extinción de ambas especies. Sin embargo el diario de hoy publica la fotografía de un caballo con un manchón sanguinolento sobre la frente. El animal asegura haber sido, hasta pocas horas antes de la toma, una auténtica doncella.
Teóloga
En el siglo Vll después de Cristo, un grupo de teólogos bávaros discute sobre el sexo de los ángeles. Obviamente, no se admite que las mujeres (por entonces ni siquiera era seguro que tuvieran alma) sean capaces de discutir materias teologales. Sin embargo uno de ellos es una mujer hábilmente disfrazada. Afirma con mucha energía que los ángeles sólo pueden pertenecer al sexo masculino. Sabe, pero no lo dice, que entre ellos habrá mujeres disfrazadas.
Ana María Shua
(Tomado de: Literatura.org)
Ninguna tiene tanto éxito como La Que No Está. Aunque todavía es joven, muchos años de práctica consciente la han perfeccionado en el sutilísimo arte de la ausencia. Los que preguntan por ella terminan por conformarse con otra cualquiera, a la que toman distraídos, tratando de imaginar que tienen entre sus brazos a la mejor, a la única, a La Que No Está.
Doncella y unicornio I
Hay quienes suponen agotado el tema del unicornio y la doncella por extinción de ambas especies. Sin embargo el diario de hoy publica la fotografía de un caballo con un manchón sanguinolento sobre la frente. El animal asegura haber sido, hasta pocas horas antes de la toma, una auténtica doncella.
Teóloga
En el siglo Vll después de Cristo, un grupo de teólogos bávaros discute sobre el sexo de los ángeles. Obviamente, no se admite que las mujeres (por entonces ni siquiera era seguro que tuvieran alma) sean capaces de discutir materias teologales. Sin embargo uno de ellos es una mujer hábilmente disfrazada. Afirma con mucha energía que los ángeles sólo pueden pertenecer al sexo masculino. Sabe, pero no lo dice, que entre ellos habrá mujeres disfrazadas.
Ana María Shua
(Tomado de: Literatura.org)
Nigel Tomm en la Web
2 oct 2009
A media mañana
El sol, el viejo sabio, va disipando
minúsculas dudas de oscuridad, dejadas
hasta ahora por resolver. Le tiemblan
un poco las manos, y temblamos
los árboles y nosotros cuando oímos
que todo minuto que pasa ha de arrancar,
brusco, una venda de sombra, y ahora el justo
caso de la luz será bien recto, y ahora
chillará la delgada desazón de la flauta
de Iblis, y lo veremos todo, y repleto
de espacios de claridad, impenetrables
como el cristal. Manifestado todo, diremos:
tú lo has querido, te lo has buscado tú, de noche,
cuando dormías sólo para despertarte
y no querías creer que la vida
se te volvería más ignorada que el sueño.
Gabriel Ferrater
(En A media voz - Versión de M. Àngels Cabré)
Blue Flame - Jen McCleary daily photo
minúsculas dudas de oscuridad, dejadas
hasta ahora por resolver. Le tiemblan
un poco las manos, y temblamos
los árboles y nosotros cuando oímos
que todo minuto que pasa ha de arrancar,
brusco, una venda de sombra, y ahora el justo
caso de la luz será bien recto, y ahora
chillará la delgada desazón de la flauta
de Iblis, y lo veremos todo, y repleto
de espacios de claridad, impenetrables
como el cristal. Manifestado todo, diremos:
tú lo has querido, te lo has buscado tú, de noche,
cuando dormías sólo para despertarte
y no querías creer que la vida
se te volvería más ignorada que el sueño.
Gabriel Ferrater
(En A media voz - Versión de M. Àngels Cabré)
Blue Flame - Jen McCleary daily photo1 oct 2009
Beautys Lot
Adorn'd with Tates, I well could Boast,
Of Tons and Macaronys Toast;
I once was Fair, Young Frisky, Gay,
Could please with songs and Dance the Hay
Dear Bells reflect Ye Mortals see,
As I now am so you will be.
Pub as the Act directs Feb 1.1778
in N. 27 Great Castle Street, Oxford Market.
Fuente: BibliOdyssey
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