Deixemos quem nos censura os comentários ou nos despreza com silêncio,
deixemos a sua suposta superioridade,
deixemos quem nos censura as amizades, o passado e o amor,
a vida é o presente,
a vida é ter alguém sensível com quem falar, discutir um assunto e passar o tempo.
a gente no fundo sabe quem de nós gosta e de quem nós gostamos.
e com quem gostamos de estar.
Por estes dias se celebra os setenta anos do estado de Israel
Convem afirmar que o estado de Israel não admite partilhar o teritório ocupado com os palestinianos,
cortando-lhe os acessos às fontes de água,
destruindo com raides aéreos escolas construidas pelas associações humanitárias internacionais,
dizendo que os soldados que matam palestinianos são heróis.
Israel é um estado que está a fazer aos palestinianos o mesmo que os alemães fizeram aos judeus.
A intifada é equivalente a uma revolta no gueto de Varsóvia
Muslimgauze: "Bryn Jones was not a practicing Muslim and never traveled to the Middle East. His recordings as Muslimgauze, however, qualified him as one of the Western artists most explicitly slanted in favor of the Palestinian liberation movement. Since the Manchester native’s works were instrumental, most of the political statement was inherent in the packaging: witness titles such as Fatah Guerrilla, Return of Black September, Hebron Massacre, Vote Hezbollah, United States of Islam, and The Rape of Palestine. Jones’s output was so idiosyncratic and prolific that he would remix anything he was given to suit his purposes and recorded an album almost every week.
Jones could have been a potentially controversial figure if his releases were available in anything except extremely limited editions—usually less than one thousand copies of each title. Despite their lack of prominence, Jones’s blend of found-sound Middle Eastern and South Asian atmospheres with heavily phased drones and colliding rhythm programs were among the most startling and unique in the noise and electronica underground. The Muslimgauze project ended tragically in 1999 when Jones died suddenly of a rare blood disease. A number of posthumous releases including Lo-Fi India Abuse (partially a collaboration with the dub collective Systemwide) and the 9-disc Box Of Silk And Dogs soon followed." -John Bush for allmusic.com
Well, I don't know,
and you can't say.
And even if you could,
you wouldn't anyway
Let's go to hell
Hey...Hey.....
Now I'm in love,
not with he or she
it's burning hate
why don't they see?
Get your hands off me
Hey...Hey.....
I'm burning now,
like a falling dove (love?)
I'm not fit to fall in love.
LOVE?
Hey...Hey.....
A broken dream is but a swinging arc
A lover's kiss then I am gone.
We'll go for a walk & you'll go nowhere...
This road leads to every disaster
Riding shotgun through this silence...
Spitting out these vicious secrets
There's a killer in a car and he's parking it right outside my face...
Get it done with, get it done with...
Is that a coffin fulluva cupids you keep pushing through my gate...
There's a lot of fallen angels getting crushed beneath his feet...
Now the killer gets the car and just drives it right into my guts
Get it done with... Get it done with...
Now the tears start flowing, the fun really starts...
Goodbye heaven, here comes heartache
When the tears start flowing, the fun really starts...
Goodbye heaven, here comes heartbreak
Well the blood is really flowing and the fun it really starts...
I don't need no derelict bloodshed
To lay my stains upon your altar
Saying prayers for passion killers who like saints commit these murders...
Get it done with... Get it done with...
The lunatic is on the grass The lunatic is on the grass Remembering games and daisy chains and laughs Got to keep the loonies on the path
The lunatic is in the hall The lunatics are in my hall The paper holds their folded faces to the floor And every day the paper boy brings more
And if the dam breaks open many years too soon And if there is no room upon the hill And if your head explodes with dark forbodings too I'll see you on the dark side of the moon
The lunatic is in my head The lunatic is in my head You raise the blade, you make the change You rearrange me ' till I'm sane
You lock the door And throw away the key There's someone in my head but it's not me
And if the cloud bursts thunder in your ear You shout and no one seems to hear And if the band you're in starts playing different tunes I'll see you on the dark side of the moon
protect me from ravagementI'm ten years oldI don't know what to doprotect me myselfI'm fourteenthere's nothing to doprotect me yourselfI'm sixteenprotect me from starvingI'm eighteenprotect me youI don't know what to doprotect me demonsthat come at nightI don't know what they saytheir whisperingsends the night air awayand makes me forgetI hope they comeagain and againhere they comeagain and againI hope they come againagainagain
'
Horace, um agente da polícia, estava a preparar frangos do campo Rock Cornish para um jantar especial. Estes frangos do campo estão congelados, duros que nem pedra, pensou Horace. Tinha vestidas as calças azuis do uniforme.
Dentro dos frangos do campo estavam os miúdos num saco de plástico. Usando o alicate de pontas finas, Horace extraiu os miúdos congelados do interior das aves. Hoje a noite vai ser o baile da polícia, pensou. Vamos dançar até de madrugada. Mas, antes de mais nada, estes frangos do campo têm de ir para dentro do forno a cento e oitenta graus.
Horace engraxou os sapatos pretos de atacadores. Será que Margot iria «para a cama» com ele naquela noite? Naquela noite tão especial? Bom, se não fosse... Horace remirou os pescoços de frango, que o alicate dilacerara. Não, reflectiu, este pensamento não é apropriado. Porque eu sou um membro das forças da ordem. Tenho de tentar refrear o meu ódio. Tenho de tentar ser um exemplo para o resto das pessoas. Porque se elas não podem confiar em nós... nos homens de uniforme azul...
No escuro, à porta do baile da polícia, a mais negra melancolia esperava por Horace e Margot.
Margot estava sozinha. As companheiras de quarto dela tinham ido passar o fim-de-semana a Provincetown. Pintou as unhas com verniz de pérola, para condizer com o tecido cor de pérola do vestido novo. Vão lá estar coronéis e generais da polícia, pensou. O condestável da polícia em pessoa. Ao rodopiar diante do palanque, irei volver um olhar para o alto. O tom de pérola dos meus olhos a cruzar-se com o cinzento de aço das altas patentes.
Margot meteu-se num táxi e foi até à casa de Horace. O taxista estava a pensar: Que bela lasca. Era bem capaz de dar umas voltinhas com ela.
Horace tirou as aves do forno. Enfiou pequenos anéis de folhos dourados, que vinham incluídos na embalagem, nas pontas das pernas dos bichos. Em seguida, tirou a rolha do vinho, pensando: Esta cidade é impiedosa, impiedosa. Para aqueles a cuja voz falta o timbre da autoridade. Felizmente, o uniforme... Porque é que ela não se me entrega? Será que se julga capaz de resistir à força? À força das forças de ordem?
«Estes frangos estão deliciosos.»
Conduzindo Horace e Margot suavemente até ao arsenal, o novo taxista pensava acerca de basquetebol.
Porque é que as pessoas aplaudem sempre o homem que lança ao cesto?
Porque é que não aplaudem a bola?
É a bola que, na realidade, entra no cesto.
O homem não entra no cesto.
Nunca vi um homem que entrasse no cesto.
'
páginas 232-233
'60 histórias'
Donald Barthelme
tradução de Paulo Faria
edição Antígona
The day I was born, Your shadow fell across my mother's breast When I opened my eyes, You coloured my mind Every move I make is by your desire. Every move I make is by your hand only Now I'm still a child, Now I'm still a child, Now I'm still a child, But I'm closer to death Cover me in roses, Gently touch me while I sleep. When I dream I'll dream of drowning in a pool of scented blood. Now I'm still a child, Now I'm still a child, Now I'm still a child, But I'm closer to death You said "Take this, it's yours", So I've kept it locked away. Now you're curled up beneath me in a pool of your own blood. Now I'm still a child, Now I'm still a child, Now I'm still a child, But I'm closer to death I'll cover you in roses, I'll hold your head against my breast When I dream I'll dream of drowning in a pool of your sweet blood. Now I'm still a child, Now I'm still a child, Now I'm still a child, But I'm closer to death
