Flat Roof. From the Centre Octubre in València.

Terrat octubre 2, originalmente cargada por trams4.

Terrats de Ciutat Vlla, Santa Caterina, el Micalet. That's part of the skyline you can see from the Centre de Cultura Contemporània Octubre in València. Roofs of the Old Town, Saint Catherine and the Micalet (Cathedral Bell Tower).

Això és part del que es pot veure des del terrat del Centre de Cultura Contemporània Octubre de València (Contemporary Culture Centre in València).

Kim Carnes: Bette Davis Eyes.

I like this song, Carnes' performance and Bette Davis Eyes'. Such a deep penetrating look... can one stare it?



Kim Carnes (1945,Pasadena, CA) is a Grammy Award-winning American singer-songwriter. She is noted for her distinctive, raspy voice which she attributes to many hours spent singing in smoky bars and clubs.

Carnes was a member of New Christy Minstrels in 1967. During this time, Carnes met and married Dave Ellingson with whom she would write most of her songs.

She began releasing albums during the early 1970s.

In 1981, she recorded the Jackie DeShannon and Donna Weiss song "Bette Davis Eyes", it became a worldwide hit.

Ironically, "Bette Davis Eyes", written in 1974, was originally rejected by Carnes. It was only after a new instrumental arrangement that Carnes agreed to record the song and it became a huge hit.

Bette Davis admitted to being a fan of the song. Davis wrote to Carnes after the song was released and stated that she was very pleased with the song as it made her seem very up-to-date with her grandson. She had Carnes sing the song live for her at a tribute held just before her death.

(from the wiki)

A corner in the old town in Valencia.

A corner in the old town 1, originalmente cargada por trams4.

I took this picture on Januray, 2003. This is a place set in the old town near the Llotja (gothic silk market), Saint Catherine Church ant the Plaça Redona in Valencia.

Buddha Collapsed Out of Shame.

Buddha Collapsed Out of Shame (Buda As Sharm Foru Rikht). Hana Makhmalbaf (2007).

Last Saturday I went to the cinema. I saw an impressive, touching film which shocked me. This is an interesing story full of pain and beauty. The main character is a little girl who just wants to buy a notebook and a pen to go to school but he does not live in a west country, she lives in Afghanistan. The girl is harassed by boys playing games cruelly mimicking their violent society. The boys want to stone Baktay (the child) or destroy her like the Buddha or shoot her like the Americans do in the labyrinth of caves. Will Baktay be able to overcome these obstacles in order to learn the alphabets of her mother tongue?

The film is a poetic and frightening journey into the minds of the children who live in the desolate area where the Talibans’s destruction of cultural treasures sickened the world – and children affected by violence everywhere. The story is a reflection of war and the seemingly unbreakable cycle of violence in children.

Since the cute little Baktay serves as the narrative guide on this journey, it is very easy for the viewers to empathize with her aspirations and disappointments, despite the very basic dialogue. The purity of the child and her struggles illustrate the very core of Afghanistan's problems and challenges, as the audience experiences first-hand the ruthlessness of the Taliban via the boys' war game.

Very common for Makhmalbaf, is the neo-realist style of filmmaking, with simple and naturalistic portrayal of events, handheld cameras and non-actors in leading roles. However, the main story is told symbolically through the specific surroundings, the games characters play, the clothes they wear—all of these, plus the music, accentuating the climactic moments of the film, guide us on this colorful but devastating journey to the Middle East.



The film feels extremely authentic, but this is not a documentary. Through the eyes of the child the film sneakily reveals all sorts of narrative surprises and political critiques despite its simple exterior. And, as custom dictates in this kind of film, the little girl is almost too cute for words, evoking gushes of sympathy toward her numerous trials.

The film’s title comes from Hana’s (Hana Makhmalbaf, the director) father. According to her, Mohsen meant that “even a statue can be ashamed of witnessing all this violence and harshness happening to these innocent people and, therefore, collapse.” Shots of the looming emptiness in the Bamian cliff faces that once housed these serene Buddhas are indeed among the film’s most devastating moments.
Hana’s done a brave and intelligent work and only with 19 years old. A brilliant poetic story against violence, intolerance and in defence of culture as the tool for tolerance peace and freedom, for a better world.

Sydney Pollack dies.

Thanks to him I've watched so many times this beautiful film called Out of Africa. Rest in peace!
A small summary from The Guardian:

Director Sydney Pollack dies at 73.

Pollack always struck me as one of the last, best representatives of the Hollywood studio system - an old-school film-maker.

Pollack significantly plumped for Robert Redford - kicking off a fruitful collaboration that stretched from Jeremiah Johnson to The Way We Were to Three Days of the Condor before culminating in 1986's Oscar-winning Out of Africa. The handsome embodiment of Hollywood glamour, Redford proved the perfect front for a Pollack production.

For all that, one could argue that his most challenging, interesting films were made outside the Redford aegis. The Swimmer was a cold-eyed, compelling study of suburban affluenza and one of the great underrated films of the 60s. They Shoot Horses, Don't They? is as a devastating tale of the American Depression. Tootsie was one of the smartest, funniest comedies of the 1980s.

At the same time as his films were turning blandly anonymous (The Firm, Sabrina, The Interpreter), he discovered a vibrant sideline as a character actor (eg. dissembling father figure in last year's Michael Clayton)
Pollack's last film as a director was a heartfelt, personal study of the architect Frank Gehry.

Sydney Pollack was an intelligent, versatile and often brilliant film-maker. Cinema is poorer without him.

Xan Brooks (The Guardian)


Two vids I've found in youtube of Out of Africa: the film trailer and the excellent Flight over Africa scene:

Poetic Recital.

This evening I've been to a Poetic Recital held in the Centre de Cultura Contemporània Octubre in València. Every last Thursday of each month (this month has been the next to the last) there is a literary activity called Escriptors al Terrat (Writers at the flat roof) in which two writers, one younger, one older talk about their work. Today two poets: Ramon Guillem and a young woman poet, Àngels Gregori (22), have read some of their poems in Catalan. It's been a pleasure!




From Guillem's book Solatge de sols (1999):


TARDA IMPREVISTA:


L´amor és una tarda imprevista,
una taronja del color de les natges,
un trau on es posa el clavell de la vida.

Aigua callada
que una nit de lluna morta
de la pedra brolla i s´escampa,
fluix secret que nodreix
l´arrel de tenebra dels arbres,
corrent d´esperma que amara la terra.



From Angels' last book LLibre de les Brandàlies:


ACLARIMENT:

I faria un poema
com faria l’amor a un cos prohibit:
amb l’ànsia de saber
que només cal l’imprescindible.
Faria un poema
escrit amb sang menstrual,
o amb tinta de tauró, que perdurara.
I escriuria poemes, llavors,
com faria les coses que més m’agraden,
que fer poemes és també
fer l’amor amb el llenguatge,
que escriure versos és també
violar els límits de la pàgina,
i que les paraules, com les putes,
s’assemblen totes una mica.

VI:


Sempre hi plou, a sobre del meu cap.
L’hivern m’ha dut la freda sorpresa de la solitud,
la de les artèries histèriques.
I és un malson, t’ho jure, veure’m al mirall.
Cada dia més lletja, més sola,
més malalta, més boja encara,
talment una granota lluny de l’aigua.
M’he cansat de mi mateixa,
allà on vaig, sempre m’hi trobe,
perduda i fora d’enlloc.
I sóc com un ravioli
que s’ha quedat l’últim per menjar,
ell sol, pobre ravioli,
al fons del roig del plat.

Sempre hi plou, a sobre del meu cap.
L’hivern m’ha dut l’espasme del temps,
la tuberculosi als ossos, el desfici als llavis.
I de tant d’estripar minuts al dia
m’han sortit padastres als dits
per fer-me companyia.



AVÍS:

Al diccionari,
les paraules que existeixen s’hi troben,
i les que no hi són,
s’inventen.

Billie Holiday.

She is in my list. This woman is one of my favourite singers. What a lovely wrecked voice and song!

Two years before her death, in late 1957, she had one final burst of glory, when she sang "Fine and Mellow" (composed in 1939) on The Sound of Jazz telecast while joined by tenor saxophonist Lester Young (who stole the show with an emotional chorus) and other members of all-star band seen here: Ben Webster, Coleman Hawkins, Gerry Mulligan, Roy Eldridge, Don Cheatham, Vic Dickenson, Danny Barker, Mit Hinton, Mal Waldrom.... Reunited after many years, introduced by Robert Herridge (producer/host of CBS' "The Sound of Jazz"), this is perhaps the single most famous "live jazz" performance in TV history. We shall not see them again.

Billie's visual reaction to L. Young's moving solo remains as eloquent as anything she ever sang; a touching finale to their historic musical partnership.

Billie's voice wasn't the biggest or even the best, hers was small which became the biggest one when she put all her emotional intensinty into the words she sang. As someone said, she delivers the hell out of a tune.
Her voice can make my heart ache. It is an experience not easily duplicated by strength of voice, tone, or precision; it is deeper than technique!

Here Lester is speaking to Billie with his horn and it is heart breaking. Her face
goes from ecstasy to bitterness to pain, as does her wrecked voice. The emotions come from their sounds. There you have jazz or blues.

She is in my list. This woman is one of my favourite singers. What a lovely wrecked voice and song!

Two years before her death, in late 1957, she had one final burst of glory, when she sang "Fine and Mellow" (composed in 1939) on The Sound of Jazz telecast while joined by tenor saxophonist Lester Young (who stole the show with an emotional chorus) and other members of all-star band seen here: Ben Webster, Coleman Hawkins, Gerry Mulligan, Roy Eldridge, Don Cheatham, Vic Dickenson, Danny Barker, Mit Hinton, Mal Waldrom.... Reunited after many years, introduced by Robert Herridge (producer/host of CBS' "The Sound of Jazz"), this is perhaps the single most famous "live jazz" performance in TV history. We shall not see them again.

Billie's visual reaction to L. Young's moving solo remains as eloquent as anything she ever sang; a touching finale to their historic musical partnership.

Billie's voice wasn't the biggest or even the best, hers was small which became the biggest one when she put all her emotional intensinty into the words she sang. As someone said, she delivers the hell out of a tune.
Her voice can make my heart ache. It is an experience not easily duplicated by strength of voice, tone, or precision; it is deeper than technique!

Here Lester is speaking to Billie with his horn and it is heart breaking. Her face
goes from ecstasy to bitterness to pain, as does her wrecked voice. The emotions come from their sounds. There you have jazz or blues.

Irena Sendler.

This is my personal tribute to Irena Sendler, an exceptional woman with an amazing, very interesting and moving life. The best of human beings. Rest in peace!

(I've summarized it from timesonline):

When Germany invaded Poland in 1939 Irena Sendler had no doubt how to respond. “I saw the Polish nation drowning. And those in most difficult position were the Jews. And among them those most vulnerable were the children. So I had to help.”

Sendler, a social care nurse for the Warsaw city council, spent the next four years risking her life in the Warsaw ghetto, delivering essential supplies and, when the true purposes of Nazi policy became apparent, smuggling out as many children as she could.

She saved many hundreds of lives — perhaps as many as 2,500. Even under torture and sentence of death, she refused to reveal the whereabouts of the rescued children to the Nazi occupiers, and after escaping captivity went back to the underground, making sure that those she had hidden survived the war.

She was born in Warsaw in 1910, the only child of Dr Stanislaw Krzyzanowski who had a reputation as the only doctor who would treat Jewish patients during typhoid epidemics; Irena, unusually for a Catholic child, was allowed to play with Jewish children and said that her father taught her “that if you see a person drowning, you must jump into the water to save them, whether you can swim or not”.

She became a social worker, caring for poor Jewish families in Warsaw. Under German occupation, conditions for the city’s 400,000 Jews deteriorated rapidly, and Sendler, defying Nazi orders, began bringing them supplies, despite the risk to their (herself and some colleagues) own health and the horrors they witnessed.

Starving children, abandoned corpses and SS officers using skulls for target practice — “I saw all this and a million other things that a human eye should never have to see,” she later said, “and it has stayed with me for every second of every day that God has granted me to live.”

In the summer of 1942 deportations from the ghetto to Treblinka death camp began. Sendler joined Zegota, the Polish organisation set up to help Jews, and began getting children out. “We would go to the ghetto every day and try to get as many children as possible because the situation would worsen every day.”

Smuggling them out was risky, because any Pole caught helping Jews was sentenced to death. Sendler used false documents, hid small children, sedated, in sacks and boxes — even coffins — and sent older ones out through the sewers or basement passageways. One mechanic took a baby out in his toolbox. Others went through a courthouse which had one entrance in the ghetto and another on the “Aryan side”.

But for Sendler, the hardest part was persuading parents to part with their children. Though the parents knew the children would die if they stayed, Sendler could offer no guarantee that they would be any safer if they left. She later described “infernal scenes. Father agreed but mother didn’t. Grandmother cuddled the child most tenderly and, weeping bitterly, said ‘I won’t give away my grandchild at any price’. We sometimes had to leave such unfortunate families without taking their children from them. I went there the next day and often found that everyone had been taken to the Umschlagsplatz railway siding for transport to death camps.”

Once the children were out, Sendler used her network to find them homes in Polish families, orphanages and convents. To help them blend in, the children were taught Christian prayers and given new identities. Sendler kept a careful list of their real identities in the hope that they could at some point be reunited with their families. But in October 1943, alerted by an informer, 11 German officers arrived to arrest Sendler. She had no time to dispose of the list and gave it to a colleague, who hid it in her underwear while the soldiers ripped Sendler’s house apart. Sendler was taken to the notorious Pawiak prison, where she was methodically tortured and beaten, leaving her permanently scarred. She never revealed the names of the children or of her underground colleagues.

Officially, she was executed in early 1944. But in fact, Zegota had bribed a German guard to let her escape from death row.

Even after this ordeal Sendler continued her work, going back underground with a new identity, bringing supplies and medicine to the hidden children, and moving them on when suspicions were aroused.

After the liberation Sendler retrieved the list of names from where she had buried it during the Warsaw uprising of 1944, in jam jars under an apple tree in a friend’s garden. She helped Jewish organisations to trace those few children whose families had survived the Holocaust. But even these reunions were painful, for the children had to be uprooted from their homes yet again. Many of the rest were eventually sent to Palestine.

Sendler herself received little recognition immediately after the war. The communist regime which came to power in Poland had little use for the sufferings of the Jews, nor for non-communist war heroes. In a still often anti-Semitic climate, those who had rescued Jews were targets of suspicion or contempt.

Her work was, however, known to Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust Martyrs’ and Heroes’ Remembrance Authority, which recognised her as Righteous Among the Nations in 1965. A tree was planted in her honour, but she was not allowed to visit Israel until 1983.

In recent years she had become increasingly well known in her homeland, and she was awarded the country’s highest decoration, the Order of the White Eagle, by President Kwasniewski in 2003. A biography appeared in Poland and Germany in 2006. Last year the Polish senate passed a unanimous resolution honouring her for “the rescue of the most defenseless victims of the Nazi ideology: the Jewish children”.

She wrote in response: “Every child saved with my help and the help of all the wonderful secret messengers, who today are no longer living, is the justification of my existence on this Earth, and not a title to glory.” She was too ill to attend, and this statement was read out by Elzbieta Ficowska, who was smuggled out of the ghetto in 1942, at the age of 6 months.

Sendler described her actions as “a normal thing to do” and refused always to think of herself as a hero. “That term irritates me greatly. The opposite is true — I continue to have qualms of conscience that I did so little. I could have done more. This regret will follow me to my death.”


She was born on February 15, 1910. She died on May 12, 2007, aged 98. REST IN PEACE, Irena!

Fly me to the Moon: Frank Sinatra & Diana Krall.

I adore this song. I've found some information on the wiki. I've summarized it down here:

(It was written by Bart Howard in 1954.It was first recorded in 1954. The original singer of "Fly Me to the Moon", Felicia Sanders, recorded the song in 1959.

Frank Sinatra recorded the song on his 1964 album It Might as Well Be Swing. This became the rendition that many people identified the song with. Sinatra's recording was played by the astronauts of Apollo 10, on their lunar mission).

Many singers had sung it. Here two of them. The gorgeous voice ot The Voice itself, Frank, Mr. Sinatra and
that wonderful lovely jazzy voice, Ms Diana Krall's version playing the piano- wow, I adore her!!!-, both on behalf of them.

Sinatra's ( pics and lyrics):




Ms Krall's live version accompanied by John Clayton:

Slideshow.

I've just added a Slideshow at the sidebar on the top left. It's Picasa stuff. As I can see it is all about flowers and leaves. It is very beautiful, isn't it? I like it.

How Blue Can You Get is a classic B.B. King song. Excellent video footage of B.B. King's perfomance live in Sing Sing Prison in 1972.

Tram, Munich 2003.

I love trams. In fact that's why I chose the name for the blog. I took the pic during my fantastic holiday to Munich, Bavaria in January, 2003.

Today's a month since my best friend died.

A month ago my best friend died. He remains in my memory stronger than ever. As time goes by he's more deeply-rooted in my heart and he'll always be. Love him so much!

A prayer and some flowers to you my dear companion. White daisies to thank you for the happiness you brought to me while in life down here. God bless you!





MY OWN PERSONAL JESUS
SOMEONE TO HEAR MY PRAYERS.

Personal Jesus. Depeche Mode.

I need to know a personal Jesus exists for me out there inside me. Depeche Mode sings it:



YOUR OWN PERSONAL JESUS
SOMEONE TO HEAR YOUR PRAYERS
SOMEONE WHO CARES
YOUR OWN PERSONAL JESUS
SOMEONE TO HEAR YOUR PRAYERS
SOMEONE WHO´S THERE.

Clara.

I wrote this short tale some days ago. I've tried to take care of every single word to get a good story. The picture which accompanies it is mine too.


Clara:




Clara is seventy. She looks her age. Probably more. In the evenings, she sits opposite the birds’ cage in the park while she watches parents and grandparents accompanying the children feeding the locked birds. Clara’s got white hair and sunken eyes. Some days, she brings a book to while away the time, sometimes she forgets it and she amuses herself making up her own stories whose characters are people she finds at the park. Today she has left Emily Dickinson’s collection of poems next to the prescriptions on the table at the hall. Poor old woman’s head!

-Pauline, viens ici!

This French words attracts the old woman’s attention. A young woman showing slender legs, calls a girl about eight or nine years old who is running away from the caged birds.

Clara remembers she was the same age and every evening…

When coming back from school, the first thing she did was to throw, brusquely, her schoolbag on the sofa, kiss her mum and run fast like a flash of lightning to the corner bar. She put the coin through the slot and shook her fingers resolutely and with extreme virulence made the ball beat in a wonderful feast of light and sound. She loved playing flipper. It made her crazy. It was the best moment of the day.

-Et alors, la petite espagnole, elle dit rien? C'est pas bien ça, eh non!
-Bonjour, Monsieur Moulin.
-C'est mieux comme ça. Maintenant c'est une mademoiselle. Bonjour, ma chèrie.

Then when the ball got into the hole, Clara ran to the man and gave him three kisses on his cheek. Mr. Moulin was the nicest French man she ever knew. When they arrived at Paris, he had made them feel welcome; he had been very warm-hearted, helped her parents a lot. Thanks to him, her mother could find her first jobs as a cleaner and he gave his father a hand when the paperwork for the renting. Mr. Moulin held them in great esteem.

The evening she was remembering, he was offering him a fanta that Clara was drinking in a hurry. She left the glass on the bar and came back to the flipper machine to keep on playing. There were still four balls left. In that place she was the happiest girl on Earth. She felt so safe. Mr. Moulin near her, her parents and her older sister some metres away down the street. Everything was allright. At school there were not problems any more. When she arrived she found some difficulties, especially, with the language. Three years ago she hardly spoke any French but soon she learnt it and now she could be the first of the class if it had not been because of this dumb of Antoinette…

-Clara, my child. Let’s go home, your mother’s got your sandwich ready.
-I haven’t finished yet. There’s one ball left.

-Toi, Con d'espagnol, laisse la petite.
-Salut, François.
-Tu veux un Ricard? Ouais ou Ouais?

Her father nodded his head.

-Dad, give me a franc.
-No.
-Please, while you finish your Ricard.

Her father gave it to her, as he always did. Meanwhile both men were talking, Clara played another game. It was difficult to her to get to know how Mr. Moulin was able to understand her father. Definitely he had the best of his intentions since in the three years they were living in Paris, his father’s French was not improving at all. Anyway, he was still as charming as always. Her father was the most charming man in the world. He was so handsome and now more than ever with his thin moustache like Clark Gable.

-Hello, madam. Don’t you think birds shouldn’t live locked up in cages, that hey should be free, shouldn’t they? - A girl with green eyes was asking her while pulling her skirt.

Clara is seventy years old. Today’s her birthday.

Hedi Slimane: A photo.

Yesterday evening, I was reading the newspaper and something attracted my attention. I can say I liked it very much. I did not know its authour. I found out it was Hedi Slimane who thanks to Internet I know he is a famous fashion designer and photographer. The photograph belongs to his dairy. Some brushstroke remarks of mine on it: Its atmosphere, eroticism, sensuality, the body curves, the paintings on the walls, the whole composition, its plasticity, it looks like a fleeting sculpture..., although there's something about her left eye I don't like.

Easter.

This is a tale I wrote last Easter Sunday remembering the way I celebrate this feast when I was a child in my native village. I was born in a small town near the Mediterranean sea surrounded by orange trees, a river, an iron railway bridge and the happiness of childhood: we went to play the usual games for this date, eat the typical cakes, the balls in the evenings... It’s written in Catalan, my native language. I include, below, the Spanish version too.


Arriba la Pasqua. Avui diumenge és primer dia de Pasqua. Els valencians celebrem tres dies de Pasqua. La festa que no falte. A mi, en arribar aquests dies, em ve a la memòria els dies de la infantesa i la adolescència. La Pasqua d’aquells temps. Quan jo era menudet, la celebràvem, primer, amb els pares i altres familiars, després amb la colla dels amiguets i, més tard, amb els amigatxos.

Anàvem a l’estació, vora el riu, a un parell de quilòmetres del poble. Allí menjàvem les mones que lluïen formes extraordinàries d’animals portentosos, plenes d’anisets de colorins cridaners, esclafàvem els ous al front dels familiars i amics, botàvem a la corda cantant cançons de Pasqua, ballàvem la tarara, creuàvem el pont de ferro del tren que anava de Llíria a València i que, anys més tard, el govern de torn i, amb culpa de la municipalitat, eliminaria, sense cap escrúpol ni moralitat, deixant, així, incomunicat el poble amb la capital, però això vindria més tard. Aleshores tot i això érem feliços. El pont de ferro era, encara és, majestuós, travessava com un gran gegant negre el riu del meu poble rodejat de xops i tarongers, estranya i fascinant barreja que la natura ofereix per al màxim plaer dels sentits. I, sobre tot i per damunt de tot, en Pasqua estrenàvem les pasqüeres, les sabatilles esportives que eren tota una institució; qui no n'estrenava no era ningú i, com no!, volàvem el catxirulo, que en altres llocs del País anomenen milotxa. Bo, al meu poble en diguem catxirulo. Hi anàvem a volar-lo, corríem, soltàvem el fil i gaudíem com xiquets amb sabates noves- mai millor dit- dels catxirulos surant sobre el blau cel d’aquell poblet de tarongina de la Mediterrània blava i verda.


Teníem, aleshores, el costum que quan ja formàvem part d’una colla d’amics en la preadolescència i, més tard, en l’adolescència de dur un mocador al coll, vermell, brodat amb el nom que havíem triat, com ara Love Story, Los Supersónicos o qualsevol nom friki per l’estil. Pasqüeres noves, catxirulo, mona, corda de botar, mocador roig… part fonamental del pack. Per la nit, sopar de cabasset o de pa-i-porta a casa d’algun amiguet o amigatxo, tot seguit a ballar amb un tocadiscs les cançons de los Diablos, Fórmula V, Manolo Escobar i, ja d’adolescents, agafats amb les xicotes les melodies de Sandro Giacobbe, Richard Cocciante, Lorenzo Santamaría o Camilo Sesto. Als quatorze anys ja no estaven presents les mares. Allò era un alliberament. Els primers besos en la boca dels amics més guaperes i de les amigues més calentorres- era el llenguatge masclista de l’època-; com les xicones fan l’estiró abans, tu et quedes baixet i jo que, sempre he sigut més baixet que ningú, més encara. Els amigatxos em consolàvem dient-me. “nano, mira millor, així quan balles l’agarrat amb elles els arribaràs amb la cara a les mamelles- llenguatge d’adolescents amb les hormones desbocades.


Però, sobretot, els tres dies de Pasqua són dies de jugar, de menjar la mona, de botar la corda, de creuar el pont de ferro del tren, dels sopars de cabasset, dels balls en casa d’algú per la nit, de tocar les mamelles de les xicones, d’estrenar les sabatilles pasqüeres, i de volar el catxirulo. Eren dies feliços, eren dies de glòria, eren dies d’infantesa, eren dies d’ahir, de sempre.



“estos tres dies de Pasqua són tres dies de jugar... la tarara sí, la tarara no, la tarara mare que la balle jo... Un dia de Pasqua un xiquet plorava perquè el catxirulo no li s’empinava... Xiques boniques, Pasqua ja ve, dies de festa i de plaer. Si voleu vindre a passejar, a divertir-se i a berenar. Portem la mona, xica remonona...”


The Spanish version:


“Llega la Pascua. Hoy domingo es el primer día. Los valencianos celebramos tres días. La fiesta que no falte. Al llegar estas fechas, recuerdo mis días de niño y de adolescente. La Pascua que fue de aquel tiempo. Cuando yo era pequeño, celebrábamos estas fiestas, primero, con los padres y el resto de la familia, despues con la pandilla, los amigos y, más tarde, ya con vello, los amigotes.


Íbamos las tardes de esos tres días a la estación, que estaba junto al río, a un par de kilómetros del pueblo. Allí nos comíamos las monas que lucían formas extraordinarias de animales portentosos, llenas de anises de llamativos colores, espachurrábamos los huevos de los dulces en la frente de los familiares y amigos, saltábamos a la cuerda cantando canciones de pascua, bailábamos la tarara, cruzábamos el puente de hierro del ferrocarril que iba de Llíria a València y que, años más tarde, el gobierno de turno eliminaría porque era una línea deficitaria sin tener en cuenta que, así, dejaba incomunicado al pueblo con la capital de la comarca y la de la provincia, pero eso llegaría más tarde. Por aquel entonces, aún teníamos la bonanza ingenua de los primeros años. El puente de hierro majestuoso atravesaba como un gran gigante negro el río de mi pueblo rodeado de chopos y naranjos, extraña y fascinante mezcolanza que la naturaleza ofrece, allí, para máximo deleite de los sentidos. Y, sobretodo y por encima de todo, en pascua estrenábamos pascueras, las zapatillas deportivas que eran toda una institución. Quien no las estrenaba no era nadie y, ¡cómo no!, volábamos la cometa, que, en mi pueblo llamábamos catxirulo y en otros lugares milotxa. Íbamos a volarlo al río y a la estación; corríamos, soltábamos el hilo, disfrutábamos como niños con zapatos nuevos, y nunca mejor dicho, de las cometas navegando el cielo azul de aquel pueblito de azahar del mediterráneo verde y azul.


Teníamos, por entonces, la costumbre de que cuando ya formábamos parte de una pandilla de amigos en la preadolescencia y, más tarde, en la adolescencia, de llevar un pañuelo alrededor del cuello – el mocador- , rojo, bordado con el nombre que habíamos elegido: Love Story, Los Supersónicos o cualquier otro nombre friki de la época por el estilo. Pascueras nuevas, cometa, mona, cuerda, pañuelo rojo... partes fundamentales del pack. Por la noche, cena de sobaquillo en casa de algún amiguete o amigote. A continuación, el baile amenizado con la música que sonaba en el tocadiscos en forma de maleta: Los Diablos, Fórmula V, Tony Ronald, Manolo Escobar y, ya de adolescentes agarrados con las chicas, las melodías de Sandro Giacobbe, Richard Cocciante, Lorenzo Santamaría o Camilo Sesto, entre otros. A los catorce años ya no hacían acto de presencia las tenaces madres. Aquello suponía toda una liberación. Los primeros besos en la boca de los amigos más guaperas y de las amigas más calentorras- era el lenguaje machista de la época-; como las chicas hacen el estirón antes, tú te quedas bajito y yo que siempre he sido mas bajito que nadie, más aún. Los amigotes me consolaban: “ nano, mira, mejor, así cuando bailes el cogido con las tías les llegarás con la cara a las tetas- lenguaje de adolescentes con hormonas desbocadas.


Pero, por encima de todo, los tres días de Pascua, eran días para jugar, comer la mona, saltar a la cuerda, cruzar el puente de hierro, cenar de sobaquillo, bailar en casa de algún amigo, tocar las tetas a alguna chica de la pandilla al ritmo del Jardín Prohibido, estrenar las zapatillas pascueras y volar la cometa. Eran días felices, eran días de gloria, días de infancia, son días de ayer, de siempre.

Un dia de Pasqua un xiquet plorava perquè el catxirulo no li s’empinava... Xiques boniques, Pasqua ja ve, dies de festa i de plaer. Si voleu vindre a passejar, a divertir-se i a berenar. Portem la mona, xica remonona... (1)”


(1) Fragmentos de canciones populares valencianas de Pascua.

Un día de Pascua un niño lloraba porque la cometa no se le empinaba… Chicas guapas, la Pascua ya viene, días de fiesta y de placer. Si queréis venir a pasear, a divertiros y a merendar. Traemos la mona, chica guapetona…”



.

Photo: Malva-rosa

I took this pic in October, 2002. It is the Malva-rosa beach, a grey, cloudy day I like so much.

Tears in Heaven

I know you're in Heaven, my best friend. Everyday I love you more, I miss you more. We'll meet in Heaven.

I must be strong and carry on
cause I know I dont belong here in heaven...

Beyond the door theres peace Im sure
And I know there'll be no more tears in heaven

My best friend has died: 7, Ap, 2008.

My best friend has died. He has been my longtime companion for sixteen years. He died last night. This morning I got up, went to his bedroom, call out his name but got not answer, called him back, look at him, touched him. He was cold, his eyes wide opened. His body stiff. A friend of mine has been with me. We have covered him with a warm blanket, put a poem I’ve written to him and a little angel to guide him to Heaven in it. We have gone to the country, up on a mountain we have dug a grave, covered it with soil, a big stone with his name and the date of today on it. Some flowers on the earth, a prayer. The mountains around were enveloped in fog. He will be with me forever. Beloved friend.

Secrets and Lies. Mike Leigh.

I watched it when it was released in 96. I still remember I thought it was a great movie. Some days ago I had the chance to watch it on TV. I keep thinking the same. I find it is one of those pictures I will never forget.

A drama, in the best sense of the word. A very emotional movie, full of loneliness and pleasures, humanity, pain and small emotions of happiness which are the most immense ones. A film where ordinary people live, suffers, looks for felicity in people surrounding them and in spite of secrets and lies which are in the middle of the way find it. A chant to life richeness, to people’s value. One of the main characters in a decisive moment pleads to leave away secrets and lies which causes hurt and wounds to each other. Only when we allow them to light healing is possible.

A film which touchs deep in your heart.

The players are great. To stand out, Brenda Blethyn.

Benjamin Biolay: Négatif.

I discovered this singer a couple of months ago.

His music and lyrics are dark strokes of hazy smoky atmospheres, melting away love relationships, which shape his work in a hermetic and inaccessible way and therefore with not millions of fans, fortunately.

Well known in France, less known out its borders, Benjamin Biolay was born in 1973; he’s Chiara Mastroianni’s husband, Catherine Deneuve and Marcello Mastroianni’s daughter.

He's been lyricist, arrangist and producer for great French singers like Juliette Gréco, Julien Clerc o Françoise Hardy.

He’s been regarded for critics as the successor for the French Chanson, especially for Serge Gainsbourg.

His style is a mix of pop and jazz, with intimate and, sometimes, gloomy arrangements.

This song is from 2003. Its title, Négatif. Here is the video:

Etienne Daho & Charlotte Gainsbourg: If

Etienne Daho is a legend in France, he's got a wide discography full of shades and great songs; he has imposed a peculiar style. Daho comes from the wave of the Rock from Rennes, from the beginning of the 80s and with ten albums he has become a cult hero for the French Pop. He has just released his last work, L’Invitation.

Charlotte Gainsbourg is an actress and singer, Serge Gainsbourg (!!!) and Jane Birkin's daughter (WOW!)

In 2003 Daho published Révolution and with it the single If, he sang a duet with Charlotte. It's full of sensuality. A very beautiful song, delightfully performed. I love this song and the way it is song by both.

The vídeo:

Technorati

Technorati Profile

Graffiti.

I found this graffiti on a big wall in a street in Barcelona. I took the pic in January, 2003.

A photo of Barcelona.

A few days ago I was looking for something in a box and I found an old porfolio with some old pictures. Among them, this one. It was taken in April, 2003 in Barcelona, in the old town, near a Dance Hall called La Paloma (The Dove). I was there that spring month five years ago in one of my journeys to that prodigious city, which it is, yes, sure it is. An amazing city! Maybe some day I'll get back. Meanwhile, the pics, some memories....

Photo.

I took this picture last Fall. It's in Valencia. I've called it, Per Dalt: High above.

The Smiths: This Charming Man.

I ike this song. It was composed by guitarist Johnny Marr and singer/lyricist Morrissey. It was released as the group's second single in October 1983. The song revolve around the recurrent Smiths themes of sexual ambiguity and lust.

The lyrics of many of the songs by The Smiths have been discussed by critics and sexual ambiguty, bisexuality and homoerotism shown suggest a vision of the attituds and past experiences of Morrissey himself.The first lines are very suggesting, "Punctured bicycle / on a hillside desolate / Will nature make a man of me yet?", Sheila Whiteley, Professor of Popular Music at Salford University tells that Morrissey is referring to a ritual pass and in other part of the song in whinch he's talkin to the passenger she suggets he's referrng to a real event in his life.


Morrissey often refers to a deviant outsider in his lyrics who in this case is represented by the charming man of the song title who offers the cyclist a lift when one of his bicycle's wheels punctures. it's a brief encounter, in partan homertic attarction. Nabeel Zuberi indicates that in Morrissey's lyrics, often, protagonists are men from working-class in homoerotic situations.

As with many of Morrissey's compositions, the song's lyrics features dialogue borrowed from a cult film. The line "A jumped-up pantry boy who never knew his place" is borrowed from the 1972 film adaptation of Anthony Shaffer's 1970 homoerotic play Sleuth, in which Laurence Olivier plays a cuckolded author to Michael Caine's 'bit of rough'.

Some of the information: Here Wiki.

Here's the vídeo:



The same text in Catalan:

"This Charming Man" va ser composada pel guitarrista Johnny Marr i el cantant i lletrista Morrissey. Era el segon single del grup llençat l'octubre del 1983. La cancó parla d'un dels temes recorrents dels Smiths que és la ambiguitat sexual.

Les lletres de moltes de les cançons dels Smiths han estat valorades pels crítics i l'ambigüitat sexual, la bisexualitat i l'homoerotisme mostrats suggereixen una visió de les actituds i de les experiències passades per Morrissey. El primer vers, meravellosament evocador, ja marca el divertit enginy que recorre la resta de la cancó. Parlant dels versos inicials, "Punctured bicycle / on a hillside desolate / Will nature make a man of me yet?", Sheila Whiteley, Professora de Música Popular de la Univeristat de of Salford, suggereix que Morrissey es refereix a un rite de pas i en altra part de la cançó en la qual es refereix al seient d'un passatger suggereix que s'està referint a un fet real de la seua vida.

Morrissey sovint es refereix a un foraster desviat en les seues lletres, que, en aquest cas, es representa pel "charming man" del títol de la cançó que ofereix el jove fer un tomb quan la roda de la seua bici es punxa. És un breu encontre, en part una atracció homoeròtica. Nabeel Zuberi assenyala que, en les lletres de Morrissey, sovint els protagonistes són homes de classe obrera en situacions homoeròtiques.

Com en altre moltes composicions de Morrissey, a la cançó apareix un vers tret d'una pel·lícula de culte; en aquest cas, el vers "A jumped-up pantry boy who never knew his place" està adaptat de la pel·li de 1972 Sleuth.( La Huella, aquella pel·li extraordinària del Mankiewicz, interpretada, magistralment per Laurence Olivier i Michael Caine).

L'informació l'he treta de la Wikipedia (en anglès) i l'he resumida i traduïda al català.


Siga com siga, tant la lletra com la música són una passada.

Juice Newton, Angel of the Morning.

I discovered Juice Newton some days ago. As I've read she's an important and awarded pop and country singer in the States. Lately she's more involved in country music, isn't it? I like her. I've been lstening to this song and I found it great.



I won't beg you to stay with me
through the tears of the day,
of the years, baby baby baby.
Just call me angel of the morning ANGEL
just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby.

Serge Gainsbourg.

He's one of my favourite French singers. I love the hazy atmosphere he creates with music words and his cigarette.

L'Anamour:
What's this song about? Love, drugs? Both? Where's the cigarette? Anyway... Beautiful one, gorgeous Gainsba!

The Cure : Friday I'm In Love

I like the band, the song and the vid. It's funny, that's a great point and that's THE CURE!

I'm starting...

I'm starting the blog. Although I can't express myself very good in English, I'm trying to do my best.