Arnoldas Kubilius
Arnoldas Kubilius is a Lithuanian-born, Luxembourg-based photographer, focusing on male body: its textures, shades and shapes.
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Arnoldas Kubilius is a Lithuanian-born, Luxembourg-based photographer, focusing on male body: its textures, shades and shapes.
Nada me prende a nada.
Quero cinquenta coisas ao mesmo tempo.
Anseio com uma angústia de fome de carne
O que não sei que seja —
Definidamente pelo indefinido...
Durmo irrequieto, e vivo num sonhar irrequieto
De quem dorme irrequieto, metade a sonhar.
Fecharam-me todas as portas abstractas e necessárias.
Correram cortinas de todas as hipóteses que eu poderia ver na rua.
Não há na travessa achada número de porta que me deram.
Acordei para a mesma vida para que tinha adormecido.
Até os meus exércitos sonhados sofreram derrota.
Até os meus sonhos se sentiram falsos ao serem sonhados.
Até a vida só desejada me farta — até essa vida...
Compreendo a intervalos desconexos;
Escrevo por lapsos de cansaço;
E um tédio que é até do tédio arroja-me à praia.
Não sei que destino ou futuro compete à minha angústia sem leme;
Não sei que ilhas do Sul impossível aguardam-me náufrago;
Ou que palmares de literatura me darão ao menos um verso.
Não, não sei isto, nem outra coisa, nem coisa nenhuma...
E, no fundo do meu espírito, onde sonho o que sonhei,
Nos campos últimos da alma onde memoro sem causa
(E o passado é uma névoa natural de lágrimas falsas),
Nas estradas e atalhos das florestas longínquas
Onde supus o meu ser,
Fogem desmantelados, últimos restos
Da ilusão final,
Os meus exércitos sonhados, derrotados sem ter sido,
As minhas coortes por existir, esfaceladas em Deus.
Outra vez te revejo,
Cidade da minha infância pavorosamente perdida...
Cidade triste e alegre, outra vez sonho aqui...
Eu? Mas sou eu o mesmo que aqui vivi, e aqui voltei,
E aqui tornei a voltar, e a voltar,
E aqui de novo tornei a voltar?
Ou somos todos os Eu que estive aqui ou estiveram,
Uma série de contas-entes ligadas por um fio-memória,
Uma série de sonhos de mim de alguém de fora de mim?
Outra vez te revejo,
Com o coração mais longínquo, a alma menos minha.
Outra vez te revejo — Lisboa e Tejo e tudo —,
Transeunte inútil de ti e de mim,
Estrangeiro aqui como em toda a parte,
Casual na vida como na alma,
Fantasma a errar em salas de recordações,
Ao ruído dos ratos e das tábuas que rangem
No castelo maldito de ter que viver...
Outra vez te revejo,
Sombra que passa através de sombras, e brilha
Um momento a uma luz fúnebre desconhecida,
E entra na noite como um rastro de barco se perde
Na água que deixa de se ouvir...
Outra vez te revejo,
Mas, ai, a mim não me revejo!
Partiu-se o espelho mágico em que me revia idêntico,
E em cada fragmento fatídico vejo só um bocado de mim —
Um bocado de ti e de mim!...
I thought I was so tough,
But gentled at your hands,
Cannot be quick enough
To fly for you and show
That when I go I go
At your commands.
Even in flight above
I am no longer free:
You seeled me with your love,
I am blind to other birds—
The habit of your words
Has hooded me.
As formerly, I wheel
I hover and I twist,
But only want the feel,
In my possessive thought,
Of catcher and of caught
Upon your wrist.
You but half civilize,
Taming me in this way.
Through having only eyes
For you I fear to lose,
I lose to keep, and choose
Tamer as prey.
Joseph Haydn - Symphony No. 52 in C minor, Hob.I:52
I. Allegro assai con brio 00:00
II. Andante 07:07
III. Menuetto e trio. Allegretto 15:43
IV. Finale. Presto 19:23
Alexander Sitkovetsky, artistic director - Norwegian Chamber Orchestra
Live recording from Sentralen, Oslo on 9 November 2021.
I can’t tell you
Why I loved him or
What it meant. When you
Are a child, you know only
The kind of love your little
Life lacked, so every
Blooming flower is a field. What I know
Is that there were two skies
And under one, I was a shadow. His
Sky was as blue as his eyes. Some
Of that is my doing and the rest of it
Is time. These days, he traces the shape of
The curds above him and I lay out under
A separate sun. Both of us are fine
With this. We picked our place
Under the lid of god and we shut
Our eyes to it every night. That’s what it means
To have loved goodly—to meet
Fate in a lavender hall and walk
Right past it, the white train quivering,
Nostalgia in your wake.
Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Spitting Off the Edge of the World ft. Perfume Genius
Cowards! Here’s the sun
So bow your heads
In the absence of bombs
Draw your breath
Dark, dark places shall be none
She’s melting houses of gold
And the kids cry out
We’re spitting off the edge of the world
Out in the night
Never had no chance
Nowhere to hide
spitting off the edge of the world
Out comes the sun
Never had no chance
Nowhere to run
Mama what have you done
I trace your steps
In the darkness of one
Am I what’s left
Silver lines whisper to me
Wounded arms must carry the load
And the kids cry out
We’re spitting off the edge of the world
Out in the night
Never had no chance
Nowhere to hide
spitting off the edge of the world
Nowhere to run
Never had no chance
Out comes the sun
spitting off the edge of the world
Winds from the sky
Never had no chance
Will watch us rise
I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,
have my seat,” “Go ahead — you first,” “I like your hat.”
Samuel Mariño, La Cetra Barockorchester Basel, Andrea Marcon performing Saint-Georges: L'Amant anonyme / Act 1 - Son amour, sa constance extrême.
With Katia and Marielle Labèque on fortepianos, the Concerto in C major for two harpsichords, strings and basso continuo (BWV 1061) by Johann Sebastian Bach is played here on period instruments by the ensemble Il Giardino Armonico under the baton of Giovanni Antonini. What is different here is that, instead of harpsichords, the Labèque sisters play fortepianos. The concert took place in 2000 at the Musikverein in Vienna.
00:00 I. without tempo designation
07:15 II. Adagio ovvero Largo
11:56 III. Fugue
The 13 concertos that Johann Sebastian Bach (1685 - 1750) wrote for one or more harpsichords with orchestral accompaniment are significant in music history. In a sense, they mark the beginning of the story of the piano concerto, which was then developed by the Bach sons. In almost all of the harpsichord concertos, Bach drew on his own earlier works and arranged them for this keyboard instrument, which was popular at the time. The harpsichord concertos were written for the Collegium Musicum in Leipzig, a student orchestra that Bach led from 1723 and with which he held regular concerts in a coffee house.
The Concerto for two harpsichords, strings and basso continuo in C major, written between 1732 and 1735, was probably originally meant for two harpsichords only. This, at least, is suggested by the fact that the string orchestra has no independent role. In the first and third movements it only doubles the harpsichord part, in the middle movement the two keyboard instruments even play without accompaniment.
The special feature of this concerto is that Katia and Marielle Labèque play the harpsichord part on fortepianos. Thus, although the sound seems historical, it has a much sharper profile. A delight for the two virtuosic pianists!
I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?
Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?
Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.
Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?
Finally, I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.