So long ago...

die falscher

No hay mucho más que comentar sobre esta película...
Alguien escribió Laughter in the darkness y asi es.
Me gusto mucho porque más allá de ver un campo de concentración y la clásica historia de los malos nazis contra los pobres judíos nos encontramos con personajes más reales y una historia que fue verdad y que esta narrada de forma amena e interesante.
recomendable...
Lo único que extrañaba era escuchar el tango...entre el alemán , un poco de francés, el ritmo argentino me parecía extraño y demasiado sensual. Pero el personaje era un tipo romántico al fin y al cabo. Inevitable ciertas imágenes de él bailando con esa desconocida en la orilla del mar, y otras reminicencias al esplendor decadente de un mundo a lo Visconti mientras tomaba sol en la terraza del hotel.
Buena, buena.

un domingo de julio...

...Song of Myself...Whitman... To my Dad...

I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,
Regardless of others, ever regardful of others,
Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man,
Stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse and stuff'd with the stuff
that is fine,
One of the Nation of many nations, the smallest the same and the
largest the same,
A Southerner soon as a Northerner, a planter nonchalant and
hospitable down by the Oconee I live,
A Yankee bound my own way ready for trade, my joints the limberest
joints on earth and the sternest joints on earth,
A Kentuckian walking the vale of the Elkhorn in my deer-skin
leggings, a Louisianian or Georgian,
A boatman over lakes or bays or along coasts, a Hoosier, Badger, Buckeye;
At home on Kanadian snow-shoes or up in the bush, or with fishermen
off Newfoundland,
At home in the fleet of ice-boats, sailing with the rest and tacking,
At home on the hills of Vermont or in the woods of Maine, or the
Texan ranch,
Comrade of Californians, comrade of free North-Westerners, (loving
their big proportions,)
Comrade of raftsmen and coalmen, comrade of all who shake hands
and welcome to drink and meat,
A learner with the simplest, a teacher of the thoughtfullest,
A novice beginning yet experient of myriads of seasons,
Of every hue and caste am I, of every rank and religion,
A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, quaker,
Prisoner, fancy-man, rowdy, lawyer, physician, priest.

I resist any thing better than my own diversity,
Breathe the air but leave plenty after me,
And am not stuck up, and am in my place.

(The moth and the fish-eggs are in their place,
The bright suns I see and the dark suns I cannot see are in their place,
The palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place

Conversation Piece...by D. Bowie

I took this walk to ease my mind To find out what's gnawing at me Wouldn't think to look at me, that I've spent a lot of time in education It all seems so long ago I'm a thinker, not a talker I've no-one to talk to, anyway I can't see the road for the rain in my eyes Ahhh ... I live above the grocers store, owned by an Austrian He often calls me down to eat And he jokes about his broken English, tries to be a friend to me But for all my years of reading conversation, I stand without a word to say I can't see the bridge for the rain in my eye Ahhh... And the world is full of life Full of folk who don't know me And they walk in twos or threes or mor While the light that shines above the grocer's store Investigates my face so rudely And my essays lying scattered on the floor Fulfill their needs just by being there And my hands shake, my head hurts, my voice sticks inside my throat I'm invisible and dumb, And no-one will recall me And I can't see the water through the tears in my ey-y-yes



One of my favorite songs lyrics...y en Santiago llueve...yo compro florecillas blancas y amarillas en recuerdo de mi padre y del mío... No olvidar jamás las cosas bellas por las cuales respiro.
Que reducido es el número de gente que va quedando. Y qué verdaderos son ...

Han peligrado
han sacudido el polvo de mis lastimosas ojeras.
Sostienen árboles ernarbolando sombrías consignas de antaño.
Hay algo que corroe el suelo bajo mis pies,
y en la paupérrima ofrenda de mis hombros,
es mi mano la que cava la tierra.
Otorgan semillas,
pequeños pétalos de carmín y seda.
Derraman sus raíces serpenteándose entre rocas y arenas.
Se ierguen soberbias,
donosas y perfectas.
respiran hondo el frío que sacude la tierra.

some day in 2007...

...so I finally did it...

Dont know why theres no sun up in the sky
Stormy weather
Since my man and I aint together,
Keeps rainin all the time

Life is bare, gloom and misry everywhere
Stormy weather
Just cant get my poorself together,
Im weary all the time
So weary all the time
When he went away the blues walked in and met me.
If he stays away old rockin chair will get me.

All I do is pray the lord above will let me walk in the sun once more.
Cant go on, evry thing I had is gone
Stormy weather

Since my man and I aint together,
Keeps rainin all the time


(Ted koehler / harold arlen)

...a few days ago...

Manifestamos ciertas quejumbres

Ciertas grietas

todas grises por fuera,

y rosadas en su interior.

Han sido magulladas

Desterradas del abrigo suave

Han sido provocadas

Llamadas al abismo para dejarse caer

Yo ya no siento mis piernas caminar hasta el borde

Sobre mi cabeza se acumulan penas viejas

Antiguos sueños y sonrisas desteñidas

Yo ya no siento mi cabeza darse tumbos contra las paredes

Como si martillara el futuro esculpiendo en mis huesos

Intentado dejar un souvenir para días venideros.

Amamos tantas veces

Dejamos de querer

Y sin embargo, en las tinieblas de mis ojos

Descubro esas dolencias de otras vidas cargadas en mi hombro

De mi boca salen esas palabras

Envenenadas de verdades y durezas, nada bonitas

Nada complacientes

Y esas grietas grises y rosáceas, contraídas, dolorosas

Se desdoblan sobre mi piel seca y gastada.

...Lebenslüge..

Control ...OIna Curtis by Anton Corbijn

Control

Peter Bradshaw
Friday October 5, 2007
The Guardian

Ian Curtis's great and terrible prophecy, the one about love tearing us apart, is followed through to its fulfilment in Anton Corbijn's glorious movie, filmed in stunning high-contrast monochrome by cinematographer Martin Ruhe.

It is the best film of the year: a tender, bleakly funny and superbly acted biopic of Curtis, the legendary lead singer of new wave band Joy Division, who in 1980 committed suicide on the eve of his first US tour: suffering from epilepsy and depression, agonised by a failing marriage, stunned by the ambiguous waves of violence and nihilism his music had unleashed and terrified by the accelerating bandwagon of celebrity. And all this in an impossibly distant age when no one seemed to have the smallest clue how to manage either chronic illness or pop music careers. It's a film that says goodbye to the English 1970s as fiercely as Withnail bade farewell to the 60s.

Sam Riley is outstanding as the sensitive, awkward Curtis, and Samantha Morton gives a career-best performance in the self-effacing role of Deborah, his almost child bride, the teenage sweetheart whose heart he was to break - with his own shattered as collateral damage. Toby Kebbell is brilliant as the band's wisecracking manager, Rob Gretton, and Craig Parkinson does Tony Wilson's memory proud, playing the remarkable aesthete-entrepreneur who put Joy Division in front of the television cameras.

The other co-stars are all the little details captured by Ruhe's camera: the English decor of the working- and middle-class, the streets, the gigs, the halls, the sheer backstage grot of everything captured in passionate, particulate detail, and the black-and-white photography makes Macclesfield look perversely gorgeous. The music is superbly convincing: especially Curtis's weird crooning groan of a voice, with bizarre hints of a funereal Bing Crosby, along with Bowie and Reed. It is all minutely observed period stuff, yet without the need to drag out the cliches, the Spacehoppers and the TV clips of Mrs Thatcher.

It all looked so vividly real to my fortysomething eye that, frankly, I thought I'd died and gone to Q-magazine-reading 50-quid bloke heaven. And when John Cooper Clarke came on playing himself, a support act to Joy Division when they were called Warsaw, I pretty well levitated out of my seat with sheer happiness, and had to be tied back down with guy-ropes.

What a fantastic film this is. Corbijn famously started out as a photographer who recorded Joy Division's existence with still images, and, in triumph, he's transferred that achievement to the cinema. When you look at photos of 70s punks and new-wave bands now, they look like the starveling relics of a much earlier age: the seedy 50s, or the hungry 40s. Maybe this inspired Corbijn and Ruhe to recreate the kitchen-sink visual sense of the British free cinema. With its grim pram outside in the streets, and that ill-starred laundry rack hanging in the kitchen, his movie is like A Taste of Honey crossed with The Sorrows of Young Werther. Control reaches back also to Christopher Petit's Radio On, from 1979. And there is an electrifying moment when poor Ian, oppressed by fatherhood, stares into the pram occupied by his baby daughter, Natalie, and sees only a dark blank where her face should be - like his own yawning grave - and he assumes the stricken look of Jack Nance in David Lynch's Eraserhead.

Ian Curtis made the ultimate rock'n'roll career move, but Corbijn de-ironises and demystifies this: his approach is intensely protective. Curtis had, after all, some very non-rock'n'roll things in his life: a heartbreakingly traditional wedding at the age of 19, and a day job as an adviser at the local labour exchange, a responsibility he discharged according to his lights - that is, with genuine concern, but with the word "hate" Tippexed on the back of his jacket. (Imagine being out of work and finding that the person you're relying on to get your life back on track was Ian Curtis.)

The Curtis who comes out of this film is not a proto-emo self-harmer, but a thwarted Wordsworthian romantic - an idea reinforced by the film's soaring final image. Here was a poetic soul who founded a band and proposed marriage from precisely the same sort of generous impulse, and yet found that his art could express only the darker side. He had no notion of what a career might mean, and what touring would do to his marriage: Curtis finds himself blindsided by a new passion for beautiful fanzine journalist Annik Honoré (Alexandra Maria Lara).

Then of course there is his epilepsy: and Control boldly shows Curtis succumbing to a spectacular epileptic episode at the climax of one gig and having to be dragged off stage by mates and crew, who had no idea what to do. "It could be worse," laughs Gretton cheerfully as Curtis lies semi-conscious in his dressing room, "you could be in the Fall." That was the nearest Ian Curtis ever got to therapy.

Corbijn quite rightly does not try to romanticise his condition as a part of any supposed genius or transcendental ecstatic state - though he does show how Curtis's elbows-akimbo running-on-the-spot stage moves were perhaps influenced by epilepsy, unconsciously. It is simply and unsentimentally shown as the obstacle to his life and his art: and Curtis is shown being as scared as a little boy as it dawns on him that his epilepsy could take everything away from him at any time.

Control is a film about England, about music, about loneliness and love; there is melancholy in it, but also a roar of energy. I thought it might depress me. Instead I left the cinema walking on air.

Uf! día d para shanta provoste y su seguidilla de apitutados politicos!!

Yasna lloro...POr favor. La inepta, rasca y victima ministra de educación ( es vergonzoso!) haciendo gala de la estupidez y la tosquedad humana partidista de este pais. Es espantoso y ridiculo. patético y triste ver en lo que se ha convertido este país.
Cómo y por qué todo un gobierno, toda una clase política gastada y viciada se cuadra con una mujer de esta clase. Que profita de su religiosidad, se exhibe y actúa comop si fuera una santa paloma ignorante d eloq ue pasa en su reino. Si ella no es responsable como ministra, quién lo es? que respuesta se le da a la gente, a los estudiantes, a los apoderados!
Si noe s capaz de saber que pasa bajo su administración, vayase a hacer footing a su metro cuadrado, humilde y pobre Shanta YAsna...
Y sip, estoy enfurecida como votante, como chilena que cumple con todo lo que ellos tanto se ufanan y solo pido un minimo de respeto. respeto que se ha pisoteado desde el gobierno de Lagos con su actitud de patron de fundo ( si no antes incluso) que por haber sido "presi" ya no tienen por que batirse ne porimarias con nadie....Dignidad dle cargo dice él...y cuando la dignidad de los electores, de la genteque cumple con su deber y derecho ciudadano de elegir y exigir!
Me dan ganas d eslair a las calles a vociferar mi disgusto y mis asco pero a nadi eparece importarle que hagan con la plata de todo los chilenos!
Este pais va condenado si prevalece es apostura de ineptitud y negligencia e irresponsabilidad...desde la presidenta que habal de una china unida cuando en el Tibet esta siendo oprimido y masacrado....y todo esta maldita clase política izquierdoza de salón, apitutados y partidistas...
Uf!
al menos ocn este me reí un poco...pero es de puro ya pathethic
16:50.- El senador de la UDI, Jorge Arancibia, esbozó una sonrisa al recibir el diario La Segunda y ver el titular que dice "Yasna lloró"."

...

Hay dias que ya no se lo que quiero y suelo sabotearme. No sé muy bien porque tengo ese afán destructivo conmigo . sobretodo cuando hay cosas que funcionan tan bien. Asumo que me han metido algunas personas pajaritos en la cabeza y yo no deberia haber cedido espacio en mi para sus consejos de viejas sabias y recorridas. No se por que escucho eso ya en mi cabeza y ciertos planes que ansio los veo alejarse. No los veo ya plausibles. Me apena. Pero lo que menos quiero es destruir lo hermoso que hay en mi vida. Es lo unico certero y lo unico que me sostienen a veces. No sé por que insisto en hacerme daño a veces asi. No soy capaz de parar y las cosas s evuelven enormes y teribles. Temibles. Yo me vuelvo oscura y agria. Y me carga cuando soy asi. Sobretodo con la persona que amo, que es mi compañero y amigo en esta vida. No sé por qué. Tal vez quiera cosas muy grandes, cosas que no podran ser porque simplemente no estan en mi naturaleza y le pido a él cosas que yo misma no puedo crear. No lo sé. Pero me odio cuando soy asi. Y me odio aun más por odiarme y no saber disculparme pero por sobretodo para y no tirar todo por la borda siempre, como si no fuera importante, como si no fuera lo mas crucial en mi vida ahora.

2008 en pañales

Ya, estamos en el 2008.
Se supone que vienen mil cosas nuevas pero loprimero que asoma e suan reunióningrata con alguien que adoro. Me llama, desea hablar, más bien discutir pienso, y sé que debo ir como cerdito al matadero. y no quiero pero por qué cresta no me niego?
En fin...hay círculos viciosos de lso cuales no podré salir nunca. Inevitables dado el lazo.
Me espera una tarde agria. Pero una noche dulce junto a Danielo.
Es impresionante cómo alguien puede hacerte tan feliz y cáunto puedes amara a alguien, recuperarte de unas caídas sentimentale shorrorosas y trsites, para tener esto que tenemos
que es tan real, acogedor y crucial...
En fin...cosas bonitas que le pasan a una...y feliz por eso...
contenat , Señor, contenta..
LA foto? foto del recuerdo...no creo que haya sido año nuevo por la torta, pero el espiritu con la copa...perfecto!