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*My Book Of Days*

Ó lá go lá, mo thuras, An bealach fada romham. Ó oiche go hoiche, mo thuras, na scéalta nach mbeidh a choích'.

Mother of Punk: She does it her way.

Nothing to do yesterday so I went to the cybercafé and played with the web to get interesting things. And I finally downloaded some NINA HAGEN clips. She's actually a phenomenon. Her voice and what she does with it is really wonderful,
and what to say 'bout her performances on the stage, her strange and shocking appearance? Excellent her performance of "Seeman" with the Finnish cello quartet Apocalyptica. Nina is a pleasure never old fashioned.

History of the Night/ Historia de la noche.

Here´s another beautiful poem by Jorge Luis Borges. Enjoy it.




Throughout the course of the generations
men constructed the night.
At first she was blindness;
thorns raking bare feet,
fear of wolves.
We shall never know who forged the word
for the interval of shadow
dividing the two twilights;
we shall never know in what age it came to mean
the starry hours.
Others created the myth.
They made her the mother of the unruffled Fates
that spin our destiny,
thev sacrificed black ewes to her, and the cock
who crows his own death.
The Chaldeans assigned to her twelve houses;
to Zeno, infinite words.
She took shape from Latin hexameters
and the terror of Pascal.
Luis de Leon saw in her the homeland
of his stricken soul.
Now we feel her to be inexhuastible
like an ancient wine
and no one can gaze on her without vertigo
and time has charged her with eternity.


And to think that she wouldn't exist
except for those fragile instruments, the eyes.

Jorge Luis Borges


Historia de la belleza.


Es el título del libro que en el 2004 publicó el estudioso italiano Umberto Eco, el autor de "El nombre de la rosa". Eco es experto en semiótica y además un excelente escritor. Es por eso que este libro que podría haber resultado de lectura tediosa de haber sido escrito por manos inexpertas, se transforma en la pluma de Eco en una obra de lectura amena e interesante. Eco es un especialista en simbología y desde esa perspectiva encara el tratado, pero lo acerca también a la visión de los legos o de aquellos que sin tener un conocimiento de tal disciplina estamos interesados en el tema.

La obra es también un tratado de historia de la cultura y del arte, aunque el comentario de la solapa se encargue de desmentirlo. El autor recorre los milenios de historia humana para descubrir de qué forma las sociedades occidentales fueron construyendo el ideal de belleza estética en diferentes aspectos, y referido a diversos sujetos. Es obvio que el cuerpo humano tiene aquí un lugar relevante, pero Eco se asoma también a la belleza de la muerte, de lo malo y lo feo, de las máquinas, de las propuestas de los mass media, entre otros aspectos. Encara también por supuesto, el ideal de belleza gótica, lo que lo hace para mí personalmente muy atractivo e interesante. Todo esto ilustrado con cientos de excelentes reproducciones de las más variadas obras de arte que ha producido el ser humano desde sus comienzos.

El libro es una belleza en sí mismo, y se los recomiendo a todos aquellos que sienten interés por el arte. Ayuda a entender de qué manera vamos construyendo a diario ese ideal de belleza y de qué manera podemos encontrarla en otros elementos de la vida cotidiana en que no habíamos imaginado que podia existir. Tal vez podría resumirse en la vieja frase que postula que "la belleza está en los ojos del que mira". Este libro de Eco ayuda a abrir los ojos para verla.

All those things that will survive us.

This morning I was reading a post by Leonard (avl_wamp) who was given a very old guitar, a beauty that is more than a century old and which he is restoring, and several thoughts came to my mind. That guitar was from an old lady who had won a contest with it being a teenager. And knowing how much avl_wamp liked music, she gave it to him as a present. A gift, to put it better.
And then I told him how these kind of things go through generation from generation joining the lives of people in an endless string along the centuries or even the milleniums. Feelings, emotions, thoughts, gather in an unique object, which is then enriched by the dreams and illusions of the new owner. It´s the positive power of human soul, seeking for a path to survive along the uncertainty of time.
And I remember a movie I saw long time ago, "The family", by the Italian director Ettore Scola and an excellent performance of the French actress Fanny Ardant. It´s the story of a family through the years and generations and how some things and objects are regarded as family treasures and icons along the decades, as symbols of the family´s history and values. And there you can realize how certain things in our own lives keep also a part of ourselves, in a way that when we give it as it happened with this guitar, we´re giving a litlle bit of our own soul with it. Fortunately, I´d say.


We are the time. We are the famous


We are the time. We are the famous
metaphor from Heraclitus the Obscure.

We are the water, not the hard diamond,
the one that is lost, not the one that stands still.

We are the river and we are that greek
that looks himself into the river. His reflection
changes into the waters of the changing mirror,
into the crystal that changes like the fire.

We are the vain predetermined river,
in his travel to his sea.

The shadows have surrounded him.
Everything said goodbye to us, everything goes away.

Memory does not stamp his own coin.

However, there is something that stays
however, there is something that bemoans.

Jorge Luis Borges

My Rock Opera tatoo's still alive!

My friend Kora asked me about my RO tatoo. Well, against all odds the tatoo's still there :yes:, strongly adhered to the inox flask :up: I wonder what happened to those people who put it on their faces thinking it would last just for a while :confused: , hahaha! And now I'm waiting for the pen or the Mercedez Benz instead if there's no pen left (lauhgs again). :whistle:

What is Opera about?

, ,


This is not another post about poetry or stolen photographs as I usually do.
This one is about Opera and me.

A few days ago I checked up my messages and I found a new one from an Opera user I didn´t know.
Soon I realized that message was not a common one. It was different, and was coming from the past, my own past.

It was from an old secondary school friend of mine. We were very close friends, sharing dreams and working very hard to achieve them. We shared tears and laughs, and walked together along many, many roads. So close we were that my daughter used to call him "uncle".
But one day we had a difference. What was it about? I don´t want to remember, believe me. Pride spoke and our lives took different roads. That was the last time I saw him, ten years ago.

Many times I walked along the roads of this city thinking I was going to meet him at any corner. That never happened.

Till I got this message.

Long ago, I had left a link to my MyOpera blog in a photography forum and my friend casually saw it.
He got in touch with me through MyOpera and left me the message.

I was astonished when I read it. During all these years he had felt the same as me, thinking that friendship is much more important than anything that could have separated us.

The next surprise was that he´s now living in Canada, thousands and thousands of kilometres far from me.
And here we are, a little bit older, carrying a lot of different experiences on our backs, separated by distance, but not for feelings or emotions. "Yeah", I said to myself, "life has its own secret ways, but we have to help her." Opera had helped me to re-connect myself to my own lost past. Suddenly the software became strongly meaningful for me, in a way I had never thought it could have been.

So, my friends, this is what Opera is for. This is specially for you, my dear DarkWorm. when you made this question in one of the threads in MyOpera main page. It is all about communicating (EspenAO dixit), about opening posibilities to the unexpected, and finding new ways to walk along old paths.

No words to say how happy I am :happy:

Simply let me say Thanks Opera, thanks life.


Montevideo by night.


Well, here are some pics of Montevideo, a city I really love, though it is not my hometown. Its´s a pity the ones I took couln´t be uploaded, but these are great and I got them from different sites on the net. (OH, forgive me Father, I don´t know what I do!) Hope you like them.

This splendid shot is of the Palacio Salvo, (Salvo Palace) one of the icons of the city. See one of my older posts for more shots.

This is the Torre de las Comunicaciones (Tower of Communications) which is becoming a new icon of the city and a symbol of its modernity. It was designed by the Uruguayan architect Carlos Ott, the same one who designed the new Opera Theatre in Paris.

BEST WISHES FOR ALL MY FRIENDS!

This post is for all of my dear friends. I wish you all THE BEST for this new year. This year has been a great one for me since I got your friendship, and that is a true treasure I will always keep in my heart. THANK YOU ALL, AND LET THE LIGHT OF LOVE AND HOPE SHINE IN YOUR HEART. A BIG BIG KISS :happy:



"1964"




I

Ya no es mágico el mundo. Te han dejado
Ya no compartirás la clara luna
Ni los lentos jardines. Ya no hay una
Luna que no sea espejo del pasado,
Cristal de soledad, sol de agonías.
Adiós las mutuas manos y las sienes
Que acercaba el amor. Hoy sólo tienes
La fiel memoria y los desiertos días.
Nadie pierde (repites vanamente)
Sino lo que no tiene y no ha tenido
Nunca, pero no basta ser valiente
Para aprender el arte del olvido.
Un símbolo, una rosa, te desgarra
Y te puede matar una guitarra.







II

Ya no seré feliz. Tal vez no importa.
Hay tantas otras cosas en el mundo;
Un instante cualquiera es más profundo
Y diverso que el mar. La vida es corta
Y aunque las horas son tan largas, una
Oscura maravilla nos acecha,
La muerte, ese otro mar, esa otra flecha
Que nos libra del sol y de la luna
Y del amor. La dicha que me diste
Y me quitaste debe ser borrada;
Lo que era todo tiene que ser nada.
Sólo me queda el goce de estar triste,
Esa vana costumbre que me inclina
Al sur, a cierta puerta, a cierta esquina.

JORGE LUIS BORGES ("El otro, el mismo")

Los claros pensamientos de Eduardo Galeano.

La guerra
Seré curioso. A mediados del año pasado, mientras esta guerra se estaba incubando, George W. Bush declaró que «debemos estar listos para atacar en cualquier oscuro rincón del mundo». Irak es, pues, un oscuro rincón del mundo. ¿Creerá Bush que la civilización nació en Texas y que sus compatriotas inventaron la escritura? ¿Nunca escuchó hablar de la biblioteca de Nínive, ni de la torre de Babel, ni de los jardines colgantes de Babilonia? ¿No escuchó ni uno solo de los cuentos de las mil y una noches de Bagdad?



Mano de obra

Mohamed Ashraf no va a la escuela.
Desde que sale el sol hasta que asoma la luna, él corta, recorta, perfora, arma y cose pelotas de futbol, que salen rodando de la aldea paquistaní de Umar Kot hacia los estadios del mundo.
Mohammed tiene once años. Hace esto desde los cinco.

Si supiera leer, y leer en inglés, podría entender la inscripción que él pega en cada una de sus obras: Esta pelota no ha sido fabricada por niños.

Light Shining Out of Darkness


by William Cowper


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never failing skill,
He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the LORD by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence,
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding ev'ry hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flow'r.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his work in vain;
GOD is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain.

My new film camera.

You know I'm devoted of film cameras and I've just bought this beauty, a Minolta X300. Quite old but beautiful, in excellent conditions and incredibly cheap.

Angel

My Rock Opera tatoo!

Well, here's my RO tatoo, thanks to Opera crew and specially to Espen for his kind card. I've put the tatoo on the inox steel flask with which I drink "mate", a tipycal hot beberage here in Uruguay. How long will it last? I don't know! but everybody at the teacher's room is asking about it! :D
What do I say then? "Oh, that's because I'm a proud member of the My Opera Community", ha ha :D
Doesn't it look beautiful?

A little bit of Borges (again).

Será (me digo entonces) que de un modo
Secreto y suficiente el alma sabe
Que es inmortal y que su vasto y grave
Círculo abarca todo y puede todo.
Más allá de este afán y de este verso
Me aguarda inagotable el universo.

(Composición escrita en un ejemplar de la gesta de Beowulf.- Photo: COLORS Magazine, Apr/May 2003)

Mobile-Blogging for environmental consciousness.

Here I selected two poems I like, and hope you líke them too:

NATURE, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
Nor wholly reassured and comforted
By promises of others in their stead,
Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;
So Nature deals with us, and takes away
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wished to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep to understand
How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

NATURE, THE GENTLEST MOTHER, by Emily Dickinson.

Nature, the gentlest mother,
Impatient of no child,
The feeblest or the waywardest,
Her admonition mild
In forest and the hill
By traveller is heard,
Restraining rampant squirrel
Or too impetuous bird.
How fair her conversation,
A summer afternoon,
Her household, her assembly;
And when the sun goes down
Her voice among the aisles
Incites the timid prayer
Of the minutest cricket,
The most unworthy flower.
When all the children sleep
She turns as long away
As will suffice to light her lamps;
Then, bending from the sky
With infinite affection
And infiniter care,
Her golden finger on her lip,
Wills silence everywhere.

Enjoy them.
Ah, the rose is a gift from my garden.

Un poco de Manrique.

Nuestras vidas son los ríos
que van a dar a la mar,
que es el morir;
allí van los señoríos
derechos a se acabar
y consumir;

allí los ríos caudales,
allí los otros medianos
y más chicos,
y llegados, son iguales
los que viven por sus manos
y los ricos.


("Coplas por la muerte de su padre", extracto, Jorge Manrique.
Hay también una versión musicalizada en la voz maravillosa del también español Paco Ibáñez.)

FREE BURMA

Support the people and monks of Burma in their fight for freedom and against the opression of the military junta.

http://www.free-burma.com




El amor duerme en el pecho del poeta.




Tú nunca entenderás lo que te quiero
porque duermes en mí estás dormido.
Yo te oculto llorando, perseguido
por una voz de penetrante acero.

Norma que agita igual carne y lucero
traspasa ya mi pecho dolorido
y las turbias palabras han mordido
las alas de tu espíritu severo.

Grupo de gente salta en los jardines
esperando tu cuerpo y mi agonía
en caballos de luz y verdes crines.

Pero sigue durmiendo, vida mía.
¡Oye mi sangre rota en los violines!
¡Mira que nos acechan todavía!


(Recuerdo siempre a Federico, soñador, soñado, víctima de la intolerancia y la injusticia.
No te han matado los plomos Federico, ni te matará el olvido.)




Sometimes...

(Thomas S. Jones, Jr., English, born 1882)



Sometimes

ACROSS the fields of yesterday
He sometimes comes to me,
A little lad just back from play—
The lad I used to be.

And yet he smiles so wistfully
Once he has crept within,
I wonder if he hopes to see
The man I might have been.