Vreau doar sa scriu despre momentul bizar in care mi-am dat seama ca afectiune inseamna nu doar ataşament, iubire, căldură, ci si boala. Un cuvant cu doua sensuri, aproape opuse.

Unul dintre cel mai frumoase complimente pe care le-am citit vreodata, adresat unui text:
"definately worth pulping the trees for..."

You and I

I explain quietly. You
hear me shouting. You
try a new tack. I
feel old wounds reopen.

You see both sides. I
see your blinkers. I
am placatory. You
sense a new selfishness.

I am a dove. You
recognize the hawk. You
offer an olive branch. I
feel the thorns.

You bleed. I
see crocodile tears. I
withdraw. You
reel from the impact.

Roger McGough

You can have it

My brother comes home from work
and climbs the stairs to our room.
I can hear the bed groan and his shoes drop
one by one. You can have it, he says.

The moonlight streams in the window
and his unshaven face is whitened
like the face of the moon. He will sleep
long after noon and waken to find me gone.

Thirty years will pass before I remember
that moment when suddenly I knew each man
has one brother who dies when he sleeps
and sleeps when he rises to face this life,

and that together they are only one man
sharing a heart that always labours, hands
yellowed and cracked, a mouth that gasps
for breath and asks, Am I gonna make it?

All night at the ice plant he had fed
the chute its silvery blocks, and then I
stacked cases of orange soda for the children
of Kentucky, one gray boxcar at a time

with always two more waiting. We were twenty
for such a short time and always in
the wrong clothes, crusted with dirt
and sweat. I think now we were never twenty.

In 1948 the city of Detroit, founded
by de la Mothe Cadillac for the distant purposes
of Henry Ford, no one wakened or died,
no one walked the streets or stoked a furnace,

for there was no such year, and now
that year has fallen off all the old newspapers,
calendars, doctors' appointments, bonds
wedding certificates, drivers licenses.

The city slept. The snow turned to ice.
The ice to standing pools or rivers
racing in the gutters. Then the bright grass rose
between the thousands of cracked squares,

and that grass died. I give you back 1948.
I give you all the years from then
to the coming one. Give me back the moon
with its frail light falling across a face.

Give me back my young brother, hard
and furious, with wide shoulders and a curse
for God and burning eyes that look upon
all creation and say, You can have it.


Philip Levine, 1979

Three sided football

Three-sided football is a variation of football with three teams instead of the usual two. It was devised by the Danish situationist Asger Jorn to disrupt one's everyday idea of football. Played on a hexagonal pitch, the game can be adapted for similarity to soccer as well as other versions of football.

It has been promoted in England, Scotland, Italy, Serbia and Austria by the Luther Blissett Three-sided Football League. The first known game played was organized by the London Psychogeographical Association at the Glasgow Anarchist Summer School in 1993.

(de pe Wikipedia)

"When Breton was asked what he thought of Camus' utilization of the myth of Sisyphus as a foil to his proud dispair, he answered that Surrealism could not subscribe to that major ailment of our time, pessimism; the Surrealist, he said, believes that sooner or later man is capable of shattering the rock."

A. Balakian

I-am scris lui alex: viata e o curva, dar e o curva imprevizibila, uneori iti aduce cadouri frumoase.

c: am avut o zi absolut idioata ieri
c: ai sa rizi
c: am ramas impotmolit cu remocrca undeva intre un cimp si o strada
c: si aveam o tona de var
c: si a trebuit sa-l dau jos si sa-l reincarc
c: si ca sa nu-mi distrug hainele m-am dezbracat
c: pina la chiloti
c: si trecea lumea si se uita la mine ca la ceva nebun
c: s-ao oprit unu cu o masina si m-a intrebat daca nu stiu vreu teren de vinzare
c: si niste copii mor intrebat unde e cel mai apropae magazin...
c: si p-orma am terminat si m-am carat
c): atit

Tacerea

Sunai intotdeauna beat si tarziu,
in vocea ta ghiceam voluptatea durerii,
bine cum eram impachetat in vise,
ascultandu-te ca pe o fantoma.

Aseara m-a sunat un amic sa-mi spuna
ca ti-au gasit cadavrul in apartament, unde
zacea de cateva zile. Iti pierdusesi slujba,
nu mai scriai, nu mai vazusesi pe nimeni de saptamani.
Inima, mi-a spus amicul. Bautura te-a dat gata.

Ne-am cunoscut in orasul ala universitar, eram
profesorasi,
curgeau poemele din noi, din jalea mitologica pe care-o
puneam la pastrare-n alcool. Si mi-era o ciuda pe felul in care
te priveau femeile, pe tine, necioplit si fioros ca un urs
croindu-si drum printr-o padure intunecata.

O data am facut schimb de poeme de parca ar fi fost fotografii cu femei
frumoase, atat de frumoase ca l-ar fi pus si pe Dumnezeu la incercare.
"Citeste-o pe asta cu prieteniile din tinerete
care nu dureaza, o sa-ti vina sa-ti smulgi inima din piept."

O data m-ai sunat sa-mi spui ca J. pleaca,
durerea-ti statea in gat ca o lama de ras.
O femeie m-a chemat sa vin inapoi langa ea in pat
asa c-am spus c-o sa te sun eu mai tarziu. N-am facut-o.

Mirosul adanc si paraginit de muschi si ace de pin
din spatele casei tale de piatra, tu zdranganind chitara
si cantand din Lorca, Vallejo, De Andrade,
de parca fiecare silaba avea gustul sangelui,
de parca ai fi avut tot timpul din lume.

Stiai ca ingerii te iubesc
dar mai stiai si ca-i lasa balta
pe cei pe care nu-i pot salva.

Phillip Schultz