Monteverdi, Zefiro Torna, SV 251

kleines Arschloch, Altersheim

Das kleine arschloch, mamor stein und eisen bricht

Le Bateau Ivre , Rimbaud ,Voix Carolyne Cannella

DAS TRUNKENE SCHIFF

Hinab glitt ich die Flüsse, von träger Flut getragen,
da fühlte ich: es zogen die Treidler mich nicht mehr.
Sie waren, von Indianern ans Marterholz geschlagen,
ein Ziel an buntem Pfahle, Gejohle um sich her.

Ich scherte mich den Teufel um Männer und um Frachten;
wars flämisch Korn, wars Wolle, mir war es einerlei.
Vorbei war der Spektakel, den sie am Ufer machten,
hinunter gings die Flüsse, wohin, das stand mir frei.

Derweil die Tide, tobte und klatschte an den Dämmen,
flog ich, und es war Winter, wie Kinderhirne stumpf,
dahin. Und wär es möglich, daß jemals Inseln schwämmen,
kein solcher Gischt umbraust’ sie, kein ähnlicher Triumph.

Ein leichter Korken, tanzt ich dahin auf steiler Welle:
die erste Meerfahrt haben die Stürme benedeit.
Von solcher Welle heißt es, sie töte und sie fälle –
Die albernen Laternen der Häfen blieben weit!

So süß kann Kindermündern kein grüner Apfel schmecken,
wie mir das Wasser schmeckte, das grün durchs Holz mir drang.
Rein wuschs mich vom Gespeie und von den Blauweinflecken,
fort schleudert es das Steuer, der Draggen barst und sank.

Des Meers Gedicht! Jetzt konnt ich mich frei darin ergehen,
Grünhimmel trank ich, Sterne, taucht ein in milchigen Strahl
und konnt die Wasserleichen zur Tiefe gehen sehen:
ein Treibgut, das versonnen und selig war und fahl…

Übersetzt von Paul Celan

Rumi - Va! (francais)

Ode à l’Amour
D’après Djalâl oud-Dîn Rûmi 

                                     L’Amour apporte la joie aux créatures
                                                  Il est la source du bonheur infini
                                                  Car ce n’est pas notre mère qui nous donne la vie,
                                                  Mais c’est bien l’Amour.
                                                  Louanges et miséricorde sur cette mère véritable !
                                                   

                                               La voie de l’Amour est un mystère,
                                                     En elle il n’y a point de querelle,
                                                     Pas d’autres qualités que la profondeur des choses.
                                                     A l’amoureux il n’est pas permis de parler
                                                     Car il s’agit de non-existence1 et non pas d’existence.

Je possède un Amour plus pur qu’une eau limpide.
Un tel Amour est nourriture licite pour chacun.
Alors que l’amour des autres est toujours changeant,
L’Amour pour mon Bien-Aimé est de toute éternité.

C’est l’Amour qui détient le secret des Lumières
C’est un nuage porteur de cent mille éclairs.
Dans le tréfonds de mon être réside la mer de sa gloire
Toutes les créatures sont noyées en cette mer.

Le cœur de l’homme est une chandelle prête à se consumer
La déchirure due à la séparation d’avec le Bien-Aimé
Peut-elle être recousue ?
Ô toi qui ignores la patience et la brûlure
Tu ne peux rien connaître de l’Amour avant qu’il n’ait touché ton cœur.

L’Amour est apparu et il est désormais Le sang coulant dans mes veines,
Il m’a anéanti et m’a rempli du Bien-Aimé
Qui a pénétré toutes les parcelles de mon corps.
De moi ne reste plus qu’un nom, tout le reste est Lui.

L’Amour est apparu et a éclipsé tous les autres amours,
Je me suis consumé et mes propres cendres sont devenues vie.
Par le seul désir d’une nouvelle brûlure
Elles se sont manifestées sous d’innombrables visages.

Dans la voie de l’Amour il faut avancer pas à pas,
Pourtant le seul pas véritable provient de l’Eternel.
Dans la demeure de la non-existence
Se cachent en fait beaucoup de vies
Ouvre donc les yeux : partout est la non-existence !
Ô toi2 dont l’Amour est l’essence de tout émerveillement
Ce qu’apporte ton Amour est total bouleversement.

Combien de temps m’interrogeras-tu sur l’état de mon cœur brûlé
Alors que, de toute évidence,
Tu le connais mieux que moi-même ?

Lorsque mon essence se transformera en océan universel
La beauté des atomes sera pour moi source de Lumière.
C’est pourquoi je brûle comme la chandelle,
Afin que, dans la voie de l’Amour,
Tous les instants deviennent un seul instant.

Le corps est amoureux de l’âme,
Et l’âme amoureuse du corps.
Je suis amoureux de l’Amour
Et l’Amour est amoureux de moi.
Parfois c’est moi qui le saisis de mes mains
Parfois c’est Lui qui s’agrippe à mes habits.

Si tu es amoureux, reste en compagnie de ton semblable
Jour et nuit, prends place dans le cercle3 des amoureux !
Ainsi, quand tu auras trouvé ce cercle,
Abandonne le monde et laisse entrer en toi
La présence de son Créateur.

kleines Arschloch ,Der Friedhof HD

Ruthe.de , Das perfekte Outfit

Teho Teardo & Blixa Bargeld , Mi scusi

:-)

Teho Teardo & Blixa Bargeld , Alone with the Moon

some nights are like this...

Teho Teardo & Blixa Bargeld ,The Empty Boat (Caetano Veloso's cover)

...

Bob Dylan ,Three Angels

If Dogs Run Free, Bob Dylan

i don't have a sea, out of: Scent of the Soil

i don't have a sea, udari narayana,
out of: scent of the soil

a book my sister sent to me, selections from telangana kavitha
2006-2010

Emerson Lake & Palmer ,Pictures at an exhibition

Alain de Botton, quotes

i will not comment, often thought along these lines, but wish i wouldn't think..

"We believe we are seeking happiness in love, but what we are really after is familiarity. We are looking to re-create, within our adult relationships, the very feelings we knew so well in childhood and which were rarely limited to just tenderness and care. The love most of us will have tasted early on came entwined with other, more destructive dynamics: feelings of wanting to help an adult who was out of control, of being deprived of a parent’s warmth or scared of his or her anger, or of not feeling secure enough to communicate our trickier wishes.

How logical, then, that we should as adults find ourselves rejecting certain candidates not because they are wrong but because they are a little too right — in the sense of seeming somehow excessively balanced, mature, understanding, and reliable — given that, in our hearts, such rightness feels foreign and unearnt. We chase after more exciting others, not in the belief that life with them will be more harmonious, but out of an unconscious sense that it will be reassuringly familiar in its patterns of frustration.

The romantic story of love tells us that our search for a partner is inspired, above all else, by a desire to find someone who can make us happy. But the truth is a little more confused and peculiar, for one of the oddest aspects of love is that in tracking down a mate, we don’t, in fact, look out for just anyone who seems kind, good, and attractive. We look out for someone who can fulfill a number of pre-existing psychological requirements — which could include a subterranean appetite for frustration and humiliation.

We are constrained in our love choices by what we learned of love as children. Adult love is in central ways a search for rediscovery of emotions first known in childhood. In order to prove exciting and attractive, the partner we pick must re-evoke many of the feelings we once had around parental figures, and these feelings, though they may include tenderness and satisfaction, are also likely to feature a more troubling range of emotions.

[…]

Without being fully aware of our wish, we need our partner to have a failing that our parents once had, so that we can repeat a flawed but potent dynamic we once experienced as children.

[…]

It seems we are fated either to seek out the fault of a parent in a partner, or to mimic the fault of the parent with a partner. Either way, the fault of the parent remains central to our love choices. Without it, we may simply not be able to feel passionate and tender with someone. We might imagine we would only be attracted to admirable traits — to perfection, to very positive things about another — yet just below the conscious radar, it is the failings that lure us in.

Alain de Botton

Emerson, Lake and Palmer , From The Beginning

Emerson, Lake & Palmer , I Believe In Father Christmas

TEHO TEARDO & BLIXA BARGELD ,Still Smiling (not the video)

still there? still there.


I re-count the black days
recollect some circumstances
even though it takes my sleep
I recall the black days
the mismatches and the end of some affairs
I recall the black days
between zenith and nadir
is there a pattern anywhere?
I recall the black days
the blackest one it's not the last one but it's there

and somewhere down there
I'm smiling
still smiling
I'm smiling
from the bottom of my shapeless soul
I'm smiling
anyway

I recount the black days
wade through all the shadows
even so it takes my sleep
I recall the black days
the cuts and the recovery
from unnecessary growth
I recall the black days
as maybe grim and melanized
but also colourful

and somewhere down there
I'm smiling
still smiling
I'm smiling
from the bottom of my fairtrade soul
I'm smiling …

still there?

Toni Morrison, Nobel Acceptance Speech, quotes

“Once upon a time there was an old woman. Blind but wise.” Or was it an old man? A guru, perhaps. Or a griot soothing restless children. I have heard this story, or one exactly like it, in the lore of several cultures.

“Once upon a time there was an old woman. Blind. Wise.”

.....

"One day the woman is visited by some young people who seem to be bent on disproving her clairvoyance and showing her up for the fraud they believe she is. Their plan is simple: they enter her house and ask the one question the answer to which rides solely on her difference from them, a difference they regard as a profound disability: her blindness. They stand before her, and one of them says, “Old woman, I hold in my hand a bird. Tell me whether it is living or dead.”

She does not answer, and the question is repeated. “Is the bird I am holding living or dead?”

Still she doesn’t answer. She is blind and cannot see her visitors, let alone what is in their hands. She does not know their color, gender or homeland. She only knows their motive.

The old woman’s silence is so long, the young people have trouble holding their laughter.

Finally she speaks and her voice is soft but stern. “I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know whether the bird you are holding is dead or alive, but what I do know is that it is in your hands. It is in your hands.”

Her answer can be taken to mean: if it is dead, you have either found it that way or you have killed it. If it is alive, you can still kill it. Whether it is to stay alive, it is your decision. Whatever the case, it is your responsibility.

For parading their power and her helplessness, the young visitors are reprimanded, told they are responsible not only for the act of mockery but also for the small bundle of life sacrificed to achieve its aims. The blind woman shifts attention away from assertions of power to the instrument through which that power is exercised.

Speculation on what (other than its own frail body) that bird-in-the-hand might signify has always been attractive to me, but especially so now thinking, as I have been, about the work I do that has brought me to this company. So I choose to read the bird as language and the woman as a practiced writer. She is worried about how the language she dreams in, given to her at birth, is handled, put into service, even withheld from her for certain nefarious purposes. Being a writer she thinks of language partly as a system, partly as a living thing over which one has control, but mostly as agency — as an act with consequences. So the question the children put to her: “Is it living or dead?” is not unreal because she thinks of language as susceptible to death, erasure; certainly imperiled and salvageable only by an effort of the will. She believes that if the bird in the hands of her visitors is dead the custodians are responsible for the corpse. For her a dead language is not only one no longer spoken or written, it is unyielding language content to admire its own paralysis. Like statist language, censored and censoring. Ruthless in its policing duties, it has no desire or purpose other than maintaining the free range of its own narcotic narcissism, its own exclusivity and dominance. However moribund, it is not without effect for it actively thwarts the intellect, stalls conscience, suppresses human potential."
...
"The vitality of language lies in its ability to limn the actual, imagined and possible lives of its speakers, readers, writers. Although its poise is sometimes in displacing experience it is not a substitute for it. It arcs toward the place where meaning may lie. "

Toni Morrisson

Teho Teardo ,Blixa Bargeld , A Quiet Life

good morning...

a quiet life

Maybe this time, Maybe this time I'll outwit my past I'll throw away the numbers, the keys

And all the cards Maybe I can carve out a living in the cold At the outskirts of some city I extinguish all my recent pasts Become another man again And have a quiet life A quiet life for me A quiet life A quiet life for me A quiet life for someone An acquired life for me I lost, I ran I started once anew In northern grey, in drizzling rain In salted slush and bitter hale But the order as always merciless It wants to see me fail So the hunter is now the hunted Past voices call my name I renounce my past to live again A quiet life A quiet life A quiet life for me A quiet life for someone An acquired life for me I thought I have been given Another chance again But heaven lies as usual I repented but in vain It tries to cheat me out of my good aim Take away what I never really got My quiet life No quiet life for me No quiet life No quiet life for me A quiet life for someone No quiet life for me

Rakesh Chaurasia, Talvin Singh , One World (Vira)

Monty Python, Bavarian Restaurant

no no..generally we are not this violently funny, not even

the Bavarians :-)