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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Ocean Vuong - Not Even This

Hey.

I used to be a fag now I’m a checkbox.

The pen tip jabbed in my back, I feel the mark of progress.

I will not dance alone in the municipal graveyard at midnight, blasting sad
songs on my phone, for nothing.

I promise you, I was here. I felt things that made death so large it was
indistinguishable from air—and I went on destroying inside it like wind in
a storm.

The way Lil Peep says I’ll be back in the mornin’  when you know how it ends.

The way I kept dancing when the song was over, because it freed me.

The way the streetlight blinks once, before waking up for its night shift, like
we do.

The way we look up and whisper sorry to each other, the boy and I, when
there’s teeth.

When there’s always teeth, on purpose.

When I threw myself into gravity and made it work. Ha.

I made it out by the skin of my griefs.

I used to be a fag now I’m lit. Ha.

Once, at a party set on a rooftop in Brooklyn for an “artsy vibe,” a young
woman said, sipping her drink, You’re so lucky. You’re gay plus you get to
write about war and stuff. I’m just white. [Pause.] I got nothing. [Laughter,
glasses clinking.]

Unlike feelings, blood gets realer when you feel it.

Because everyone knows yellow pain, pressed into American letters, turns
to gold.

Our sorrow Midas-touched. Napalm with a rainbow afterglow.

I’m trying to be real but it costs too much.

They say the Earth spins and that’s why we fall but everyone knows it’s the
music.

It’s been proven difficult to dance to machine gun fire.

Still, my people made a rhythm this way. A way.

My people, so still, in the photographs, as corpses.

My failure was that I got used to it. I looked at us, mangled under the TIME
photographer’s shadow, and stopped thinking, Get up, get up.

I saw the graveyard steam in the pinkish dawn and knew the dead were still
breathing. Ha.

If they come for me, take me home take me out.

What if it wasn’t the crash that made me, but the debris?

What if it was meant this way: the mother, the lexicon, the line of cocaine on
the mohawked boy’s collarbone in an East Village sublet in 2007?

What’s wrong with me, Doc? There must be a pill for this.

Too late—these words already shrapnel in your brain.

Impossible in high school, I am now the ultimate linebacker. I plow through
the page, making a path for you, dear reader, going nowhere.

Because the fairy tales were right. You’ll need magic to make it out of here.

Long ago, in another life, on an Amtrak through Iowa, I saw, for a few blurred
seconds, a man standing in the middle of a field of winter grass, hands at his
side, back to me, all of him stopped there save for his hair scraped by low
wind.

When the countryside resumed its wash of gray wheat, tractors, gutted
barns, black sycamores in herdless pastures, I started to cry. I put my copy
of Didion’s The White Album down and folded a new dark around my head.

The woman beside me stroked my back saying, in a Midwestern accent that
wobbled with tenderness, Go on son. You get that out now. No shame in
breakin’ open. You get that out and I’ll fetch us some tea. Which made me
lose it even more.

She came back with Lipton in paper cups, her eyes nowhere blue and there.
She was silent all the way to Missoula, where she got off and said, patting my
knee, God is good. God is good.

I can say it was beautiful now, my harm, because it belonged to no one else.

To be a dam for damage. My shittiness will not enter the world, I thought,
and quickly became my own hero.

Do you know how many hours I’ve wasted watching straight boys play video
games?

Enough.

Time is a mother.

Lest we forget, a morgue is also a community center.

In my language, the one I recall now only by closing my eyes, the word for
love is Yeu.

And the word for weakness is Yếu.

How you say what you mean changes what you say.

Some call this prayer. I call it watch your mouth.

When they zipped my mother in a body bag I whispered: Rose, get out of there.
Your plants are dying.

Enough is enough.

Body, doorway that you are, be more than what I’ll pass through.

Stillness. That’s what it was.

The man in the field in the red sweater, he was so still he became, somehow,
more true, like a knife wound in a landscape painting.

Like him, I caved.

I caved and decided it will be joy from now on. Then everything opened. The
lights blazed around me into a white weather

and I was lifted, wet and bloody, out of my mother, screaming

and enough.

Haydn

L'Orchestre Philharmonique de Radio France interprète la Symphonie n°86 en Ré Majeur Hob. I : 86 de Joseph Haydn, sous la direction de Barbara Hannigan. Concert enregistré et filmé le 25 janvier 2019 à l'Auditorium de Radio France à Paris.

What We Drew

Yaeji - What We Drew. Taken from the mixtape, WHAT WE DREW 우리가 그려왔던, out Thursday 2nd April on XL Recordings.

Director: Dqm
Dop: Jooyoung Ha
Pd: Hanul Na, Doggyu Kim And Juyoung Kim
Focus Fuller: Sungju Min
1st Ad: Nikolai Ahn
2nd Ac: Kihun Kim And Jun Kim
3rd Ac: Byungho Jang
Gaffer: Hunho Kwon, Junmin Yang, Dongyu Lee And Yungkyun Park
Art(Set & Prop): Sojeong Hong, Shinhye Kang And Daeseok Kang
Vfx: .Pic
Colorist: Isle Kang
Hair & Makeup: Ji Eun, Daseul Kang

Friends: Yaeji Lee, Nicole Kim, Bao Tran Tran, Dasom Han, Jihyung Choi, Gayoung Kim, Monica Kim, Dawn Jung And Grandfather (Jin Soo Chul Aka Happi)

Special Thanks To: Sohee Hong, Laura Stefu

Carl Phillips - Gold Leaf

To lift, without ever asking what animal exactly it once belonged to,
the socketed helmet that what’s left of the skull equals
up to your face, to hold it there, mask-like, to look through it until
looking through means looking back, back through the skull,
into the self that is partly the animal you’ve always wanted to be,
that—depending—fear has prevented or rescued you from becoming,
to know utterly what you’ll never be, to understand in doing so
what you are, and say no to it, not to who you are, to say no to despair.

A Flauta Mágica

Teatro La Fenice - stagione 2014/ 2015
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart - Die Zauberflöte

CAST
Sarastro Goran Jurić
Tamino Antonio Poli
Oratore / Sacerdote Michael Leibundgut
Primo sacerdote / Secondo armigero William Corrò
Secondo sacerdote / Primo armigero Federico Lepre
Regina della notte Olga Pudova
Pamina Ekaterina Sadovnikova
Prima damigella Cristina Baggio
Seconda damigella Rosa Bove
Terza damigella Silvia Regazzo
Tre fanciulli Solisti del Münchner Knabenchor
Papagena Caterina Di Tonno
Papageno Alex Esposito
Monostatos Marcello Nardis
Una vecchia Daniela Foà

Direttore Antonello Manacorda
regia Damiano Michieletto
scene Paolo Fantin
costumi Carla Teti
light designer Alessandro Carletti
video designer Carmen Zimmermann, Roland Horvath

Orchestra e Coro del Teatro La Fenice
maestro del Coro Ulisse Trabacchin

riprese video Oxymore production

Diannely Antigua - Diary Entry #1: Testimony

I hope no one reads this—
I was pregnant in the purple dress

when I escaped from the house.
I was going camping, I was going to Canada. I was

missing a girl who was not a bride.
And I’m still searching for

the face. There was a surgery,
a bald head and a grieving. Tomorrow

I will apologize
about that burst, my ugly ghost.

I’ll feel guilty for two people. I’ll go
to the bathroom to get married

and dream of a driveway. In the dream, I’ll feel
the kiss. It’s the year 2000

and I did all my homework. The pastor
suspects nothing. I am 12.

We play the weird game.
And that’s not the end.

Australian Chamber Orchestra

Australian Chamber Orchestra: NPR Music Tiny Desk Concert From The Archives

Tom Huizenga | December 21, 2009

Classical music has a long and distinguished history in Australia, from the eccentric composer Percy Grainger to opera diva Joan Sutherland to the guests for this Tiny Desk concert: members of the Australian Chamber Orchestra.

This ensemble is among the most culturally current and agile in classical music today. Its young players are unafraid to take risks — or sport enlightened hair styles — and they delight in merging genres. On a recent U.S. tour, they played music by Handel, Bartok, Australia's amazing Carl Vine and Pink Floyd. The icing on the hipness cake is the orchestra's director, lead violinist Richard Tognetti. Last year, he and his surfing buddies were the subject of an award-winning documentary, Musica Surfica.

In this performance, Tognetti, his 1743 Guarneri del Gesu violin and an abbreviated version of the orchestra (five players) huddle around Bob Boilen's desk to prove they can really mix it up.

After a dynamic rendition of the opening movement from Maurice Ravel's String Quartet, Tognetti takes the spotlight in his own arrangement of Ravel's version of the traditional Kaddisch. That seamlessly slides into the song "Oasis," featuring the composer Joseph Tawadros on the Egyptian oud (lute) and his brother James with percussion. It all adds up to a stirring tribute to the unpredictability and vitality of classical music itself.

No Time for Love Like Now

NO TIME FOR LOVE LIKE NOW
First take! A new song with Aaron Dessner. This is the demo track.
Echoing Love xxx Michael

...

no time for breezy
no time for arguments
no time for love like now

there’s no time in the bardo
no time in the in-between
no time for love like now

there’s no time for dancing
there’s no time for undecideds
no time for love like now

where did this all begin to change
the lockdown memories can’t sustain
this glistening, hanging free fall

i turned away from the glorious light
i turned my head and cried
whatever waiting means in this new place
i am waiting for you

there’s no time for honey
no time for psalms and thresholds
whisper a sweet prayer sigh

where did this all begin to change
the lockdown memories can’t sustain
this glistening, hanging free fall

i turned away from the glorious light
i turned my head and cried
whatever waiting means in this new place
i am waiting for you
your voice is echoing love love love love love
i hear it far far away
and i am waiting for you
i am waiting for you
whatever waiting means in this new place
i am waiting for you
i am waiting for you

copyright michael stipe 2020