It was like this: you were happy, then you were sad, then happy again, then not.
It went on. You were innocent or you were guilty. Actions were taken, or not.
At times you spoke, at other times you were silent. Mostly, it seems you were silent—what could you say?
Now it is almost over.
Like a lover, your life bends down and kisses your life.
It does this not in forgiveness— between you, there is nothing to forgive— but with the simple nod of a baker at the moment he sees the bread is finished with transformation.
Eating, too, is a thing now only for others.
It doesn’t matter what they will make of you or your days: they will be wrong, they will miss the wrong woman, miss the wrong man, all the stories they tell will be tales of their own invention.
Your story was this: you were happy, then you were sad, you slept, you awakened. Sometimes you ate roasted chestnuts, sometimes persimmons.
Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink And rise and sink and rise and sink again; Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; Yet many a man is making friends with death Even as I speak, for lack of love alone. It well may be that in a difficult hour, Pinned down by pain and moaning for release, Or nagged by want past resolution's power, I might be driven to sell your love for peace, Or trade the memory of this night for food. It well may be. I do not think I would.
Nino Rota: Fagottkonzert ∙ hr-Sinfonieorchester ∙ Theo Plath ∙ Christoph Koncz
I. Toccata. Allegretto vivace 00:00 II. Recitativo. Lento 04:44 III. [Tema e variazioni]. Andante 08:07 – Variazione I. Valzer 09:29 – Variazione II. Polka. Molto allegro 10:29 – Variazione III. Siciliana. Larghetto 11:19 – Variazione IV. Scherzo. Mosso 13:21 – Variazione V. Sarabanda. Quasi adagio 14:10 – Variazione VI. Galop. Allegro vivo 15:28
hr-Sinfonieorchester – Frankfurt Radio Symphony ∙ Theo Plath, Fagott ∙ Christoph Koncz, Dirigent
Recorded live during the V Festival Villa-Lobos in 15/04/2012 Sala Simón Bolívar - Caracas, Venezuela Centro de Acción Social por La Música Sede Nacional de las Orquestas y Coros Juveniles e Infantiles de Venezuela
Nada tão silencioso como o tempo no interior do corpo. Porque ele passa com um rumor nas pedras que nos cobrem, e pelo sonoro desalinho de algumas árvores que são os nossos cabelos imaginários. Até na íris dos olhos o tempo faz estalar faíscas de luz breve.
Só no interior sem nome do nosso corpo ou esfera húmida de algum astro ignoto, numa órbita apartada, o tempo caladamente persegue o sangue que se esvai sem som. Entre o princípio e o fim vem corroer as vísceras, que ocultamos como a Terra. Trilam os lábios nossos, à semelhança das musicais manhãs dos pássaros. Mesmo os ouvidos cantam até à noite ouvindo o amor de cada dia. A pele escorre pelo corpo, com o seu correr de água, e as lágrimas da angústia são estridentes quando buscam o eco. Mas nós sentimos dentro do coração que somos filhos dilectos do tempo e que, se hoje amamos, foi depois de termos amado ontem. O tempo é silencioso e enigmático imerso no denso calor do ventre. Guardado no silêncio mais espesso, o tempo faz e desfaz a vida.
apologies. i was part of the joy industrial complex, told them their bodies were miracles & they ate it, sold someday, made money off soon & now. i snuck an ode into the elegy, forced the dead to smile & juke. implied America, said destroy but offered nary step nor tool. i paid taxes knowing where the funds go. in April, my offering to my mother’s slow murder. by May my sister filled with the bullets i bought. June & my father’s life locked in a box i built. my brother’s end plotted as i spend. idk why i told you it would be ok. not. won’t. when they aren’t killing you they’re killing someone else. sometimes their hands at the ends of your wrist. you (you & me) are agent & enemy. there i was, writing anthems in a nation whose victory was my blood made visible, my mother too sugared to weep without melting, my rage a comfort foaming at my racial mouth, singing gospel for a god they beat me into loving. lord your tomorrow holds no sway, your heavens too late. i’ve abandon you as you me, for me. say la vee. but sweet Satan—OG dark kicked out the sky first fallen & niggered thing—what’s good? who owns it? where does it come from? satan, first segregation, mother of exile what do you promise in your fire? for our freedom, i offer over their souls. theirs. mine is mine. i refuse any Hell again. i’ve known nearer devils. the audience & the mirror. they/i make you look weak. they/i clapped at my eulogies. they/i said encore, encore. i/we wanted to stop being killed & they/i thanked me for beauty. &, pitifully, i loved them. i thanked them. i took the awards & cashed the checks. i did the one about the boy when requested, traded their names for followers. in lieu of action, i wrote a book, edited my war cries down to prayers. oh, devil. they gave me a god and gave me clout. they took my poems and took my blades. Satan, like you did for God, i sang. i sang for my enemy, who was my God. i gave it my best. i bowed and smiled. teach me to never bend again.
Between 1983 and 1999 the visionary American filmmaker captured the face of every actor he encountered on his point-and-shoot camera, compiling an enthralling album of icons in the making
