mf doom by jaime hernandez
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Si me preguntáis en dónde he estado
debo decir “Sucede”.
Debo de hablar del suelo que oscurecen las piedras,
del río que durando se destruye:
no sé sino las cosas que los pájaros pierden,
el mar dejado atrás, o mi hermana llorando.
Por qué tantas regiones, por qué un día
se junta con un día? Por qué una negra noche
se acumula en la boca? Por qué muertos?
Sí me preguntáis de dónde vengo, tengo que conversar con cosas rotas,
con utensilios demasiado amargos,
con grandes bestias a menudo podridas
y con mi acongojado corazón.
No son recuerdos los que se han cruzado
ni es la paloma amarillenta que duerme en el olvido,
sino caras con lágrimas,
dedos en la garganta,
y lo que se desploma de las hojas:
la oscuridad de un día transcurrido,
de un día alimentado con nuestra triste sangre.
He aquí violetas, golondrinas,
todo cuanto nos gusta y aparece
en las dulces tarjetas de larga cola
por donde se pasean el tiempo y la dulzura.
Pero no penetremos más allá de esos dientes,
no mordamos las cáscaras que el silencio acumula,
porque no sé qué contestar:
hay tantos muertos,
y tantos malecones que el sol rojo partía
y tantas cabezas que golpean los buques,
y tantas manos que han encerrado besos,
y tantas cosas que quiero olvidar.
* * *
Were you to ask me where I’ve been
I would have to say, “There comes a time.”
I would have to tell how dirt mottles the rocks,
how the river, running, runs out of itself:
I know only what left the birds bereaved,
the sea forsaken, or my sister weeping.
Why so many places, why does one day cling to another? Why does a night’s blackness
drain into the mouth? Why the dead?
Were you to ask where I come from, I would have to talk with shattered things,
with all too bitter tools,
with massive festering beasts, now and then,
and with my grief-bitten heart.
Unremembered are those who crossed over
and the pale dove asleep in oblivion,
only teary faces,
fingers at the throat,
and whatever falls from the leaves:
the darkness of a burnt-out day,
a day flavoured with our curdled blood.
Here I have violets, swallows,
we want anything and it appears
in that long train of impressions
that marks the passing of kindness and time.
But let’s go no further than the teeth,
we won’t chew on husks heaped up by silence,
because I don’t know how to answer:
there are so many dead,
and so many levees the red sun has cloven
and so many heads that knock against hulls,
and so many hands that shut up kisses,
and so many things I want to forget.
English translation by Forrest Gander
Photo with 1 note
This is the very first advertisement for sliced bread. It says, “The Greatest Forward Step in the Baking Industry since Bread was Wrapped.”
For thirty years, Joel and Ethan Coen have been writing, producing and directing idiosyncratic films with a distinct type of comedy and structure. Their accessible and recognisable style has been so influential that it has led to the privilege of having the suffix -esque attached to their names to describe it. Now, in an entirely pointless exercise, I’m going to rank all 16 of their films in order of how much I like them.
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Eleven elliptical expulsions, emphasis emotionally enlarging eyes, encryptions estranging elision, encluding John Fahey, Art Tatum and Bill Lee
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There is nothing very remarkable about being immortal; with the exception of mankind, all creatures are immortal, for they know nothing of death.
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Squirrel Nut Zippers, The Ghost of Stephen Foster
Video directed by Raymond Persi and Matthew Nastuk
“The more you look, the less you really know. It’s a fact, a true fact. In a way, it’s the only fact there is.”
The Man Who Wasn’t There (Joel Coen, 2001)
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I picture you, Louis, stood up straight,
all readiness like a bassoon.
Generous breaths from your gentle face,
in place of a howl to the moon.
Clicking and clucking and popping and stomping
and tuning and tripping and tapping -
fingers labouring every surface
just in order to see what would happen.
The unseen Manhattan bounds around in your head:
cars roar, men cough, horns bellow.
Blind noises are beat by the drum in your hand;
New York’s been caught in a cello.
Shoes drub pavements with auricular violence,
coffee tastes like the sound of percussion.
Gulped by commuters in the shade of skyscrapers,
hourly beat by your hand in the rushing.
You’re there nine til five, wide open to life,
its excitement a repeating sound.
Lessons are learned by reciting the rhyme:
a life that was lived in a round.
Here stood a man whose mind was his fuel,
stories sloshing around in his jerrycan.
I picture you, Louis, doing your thing:
bearded, playful, American.
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“We played a game you couldn’t win to the utmost.”
Drugstore Cowboy (Gus Van Sant, 1989)
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