- Slave (Armageddon Gigolo) - gypsy, punk! great
- Song for the old man - on the brink between horrible and wonderful
Thursday, 14 November 2013
Spiritual Front - (misc)
Wednesday, 13 November 2013
Carate Urio Orchestra - "Sparrow Mountain"
"In Carate Urio Orchestra, Joachim Badenhorst brings together seven musicians from his different ongoing
projects." the website says.
Curious jazz, almost poppy, interlooped with near-Gregorian chants.
Curious jazz, almost poppy, interlooped with near-Gregorian chants.
Tango No. 9 - "Oh, Those Dark Eyes" (Radio Valencia)
A tango, on Pandora's "Gotan Project" radio.
Haven't listened to tango for a while. It's pretty good. Perhaps good to listen more.
(turns out I have heard them before. Figures.)
Haven't listened to tango for a while. It's pretty good. Perhaps good to listen more.
(turns out I have heard them before. Figures.)
Saturday, 9 November 2013
T.S. Eliot - "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock"
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question….
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor
And this, and so much more?
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question….
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor
And this, and so much more?
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Hell On Wheels
First season started slow. Westerns are supposed to be slow, but not this kind of slow. Them were aiming for Emmies and whatnot. Poses and the such.
Season two is getting better. Buchanon (spelled differently) is a bit more of a bad-ass with character, instead of just a pining poor soul.
Season two is getting better. Buchanon (spelled differently) is a bit more of a bad-ass with character, instead of just a pining poor soul.
I Am Kloot - "Avenue Of Hope"
In one of my Q's. So glad I saved them.
"No one's born / No one died / ... / And we wait to see / Just what we'll become"
"No one's born / No one died / ... / And we wait to see / Just what we'll become"
Tom Barman & Guy van Nueten - "Nothing Really Ends" (live)
again, for the log. To sit down, and cry. Silently.
Goran Vejvoda - "My Dear Friend"
Simply had to log this. So beautiful in its sadness.
Immortal (Ad Vitam)
Immortal (Ad Vitam)
Friday, 8 November 2013
Album Leaf - (misc)
A good friend sent the link to "The Light" and after that one, started listening to a random collection of their stuff on grooveshark.
All instrumental, non-intrusive, piano-electronic with gentle rhythms. Perhaps good background/coding/writing music.
All instrumental, non-intrusive, piano-electronic with gentle rhythms. Perhaps good background/coding/writing music.
Thursday, 7 November 2013
Wednesday, 6 November 2013
Eivor - "All Blue" (Larva)
heard on soma.fm (Iceland Airwaves)
Ethereal girly voice. Nice. Perhaps boring after a while.
Ethereal girly voice. Nice. Perhaps boring after a while.
Monday, 4 November 2013
Kevin Kiner - "Hell on Wheels" OST
Still hate the fact I cannot find Deer Tick's cover of "Death To Everyone", but anyway. The OST is nice enough, particularly "Going Hunting", which is the most Western film music in style.
Codex Seraphinianus
http://the-dimka.livejournal.com/6645.html
in the late 70s italian architect, illustrator and industrial designer luigi serafini made a book, an encyclopedia of unknown, parallel world. it’s about 360-380 pages. it is written in an unknown language, using an unknown alphabet. it took him 30 month to complete that masterpiece that many might call “the strangest book on earth”. codex seraphinianus is divided to 11 chapters and two parts - first one is about nature and the second one is about people.
btw five hundred years ago there was another book somewhat like that - voynich manuscript.
in the late 70s italian architect, illustrator and industrial designer luigi serafini made a book, an encyclopedia of unknown, parallel world. it’s about 360-380 pages. it is written in an unknown language, using an unknown alphabet. it took him 30 month to complete that masterpiece that many might call “the strangest book on earth”. codex seraphinianus is divided to 11 chapters and two parts - first one is about nature and the second one is about people.
btw five hundred years ago there was another book somewhat like that - voynich manuscript.
word: splorp
"I was at the beginning of a movement that rose like a wave and quickly crashed over us in a splorp of thoughtless ornamentation."
http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/brainpickings/rss/~3/dC37xJfMwWE/
http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/brainpickings/rss/~3/dC37xJfMwWE/
Sunday, 3 November 2013
Deer Tick - "Death to Everyone"
featured in "Hell on Wheels" but unable to find that version. Beautiful.
Wednesday, 30 October 2013
word: madrugada
(Spanish)
The period between “the dead of night” and “early morning”. Roughly 1am-4am.
The period between “the dead of night” and “early morning”. Roughly 1am-4am.
James Joyce - "Araby"
A boy, in absolute love with a girl he has hardly exchanged a few words with, leaves his childlike ways and tries to visit a bazaar to buy her a present. His uncle, having forgotten his wish to go, comes back home late and when the boy finally arrives, only a few stalls are still open. He does not dare to buy anything, and “Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.” [the end]
From a storytelling point of view, I love the descriptions that Joyce gives us. The houses gazing at each other. “where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a coachman smoothes and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness.” These are amazing, gripping descriptions of a boy’s world. Even the romantic descriptions, which can be very cliche written from a young boy’s perspective, are good.
I am not sure though that I ‘get’ the story. It is a coming of age event, he is finally acknowledged by “his” girl and can’t wait to fulfill her request. He fails… and then considers himself the fool of vanity. Wasn’t it his uncle’s fault? Is it an event that describes both the coming of age and the realization that we’re all love’s fools? I cannot seem to care much for the boy’s anguish, and the revelation after the conflict does not truly seem to resolve for me.
From a storytelling point of view, I love the descriptions that Joyce gives us. The houses gazing at each other. “where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a coachman smoothes and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness.” These are amazing, gripping descriptions of a boy’s world. Even the romantic descriptions, which can be very cliche written from a young boy’s perspective, are good.
I am not sure though that I ‘get’ the story. It is a coming of age event, he is finally acknowledged by “his” girl and can’t wait to fulfill her request. He fails… and then considers himself the fool of vanity. Wasn’t it his uncle’s fault? Is it an event that describes both the coming of age and the realization that we’re all love’s fools? I cannot seem to care much for the boy’s anguish, and the revelation after the conflict does not truly seem to resolve for me.
Barry Hannah - "The Agony of T Bandini"
His character, in the raw way Hannah describes it - “near vomitous with joy” - is not somebody one would quickly love to hang out with, but the reader is almost forced to acknowledge the honesty in his approach to life. There’s a brutal, raw directness to them. “Don’t take the cheap way out. Nobody is really… anything. Everybody is just a collision.”
There is no overwhelming urge in this story to see what happens next, no “whodunnit” feeling, but his character is intriguing in its disgust, its directness, that the reader is kept on a leash all through the pages.
There is no overwhelming urge in this story to see what happens next, no “whodunnit” feeling, but his character is intriguing in its disgust, its directness, that the reader is kept on a leash all through the pages.
Monday, 28 October 2013
Richard Selzer - "The Knife"
Amazing short about the scalpel in an operation theatre. I shouldn't say more, just reread it, time and again, and see how it accomplishes just that, the story of a knife, through the words and sentences.
Shilpa Ray - (misc)
Championed by Nick Cave, she plays raw punky song. Nice enough, nothing crazy though.
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