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Marginal

Dedicated to girls
are lost
barking SHARPENER (Javier Corcobado)

bleeding pretty sweet little girl,
lying in the snow, lost in the woods, almond
arms, arms.
Miguel Angel was the sharpening of the people on the banks of Jotador.
In Varende accused him of stealing three sheep on the day of St. Adam
to feed the wolf that was locked in his mansion. Damn
wooden house that he left church.
Michelangelo was the grinder, inherited his father left him,
was not a thief, pampered knives axes and knives, sickles and arrows
love between wood smoke from fireplaces flag
spirit of the streets where people imitated gestures bitter city.
bleeding pretty sweet little girl,
sunburnt, lost in the woods, olives
arms, arms.
swung the ropes death threats and old hunting rifles,
where justice was taken by any calloused hand. Wine
winter, moonless night. Michelangelo
awoke on his mattress on fire with hell about grabbing
eyes to the life of a leap to his feet and off his burning
the bag was his blanket
ran wildly into the dark room where he screamed his idiot brother
the wolf that took, howling in screams were becoming
and the door was stuck Miguel Angel long beat, beat, beat,
while they were growing voices of the fire, wood possessed.
embers at the end almost knocked the door and there
Michelangelo found the red beam of anger
who went to his brother in half. Smoke
black bones and hopes
pushed by the cold February wind
until the last pillar of that giant pile collapsed.
bleeding pretty sweet little girl,
wet by rain, lost in the woods, grapes
arms, arms.
The people of the banks forgot the grinder, a spell of silence
their minds and tore it
and nobody knew it meant "grinder."
was celebrating spring and the girls sang their communion
soaked poppy candor, that afternoon
Amos's daughter disappeared on Mount Brenan
between bees and loves waltzes colors.
The next morning she was found, angel skin
torn between the white satin of his incarnation.
bleeding pretty sweet little girl,
under the blue sky, lost in the bush, butterfly
arms, arms.
Miguel Angel was the grinder,
on the roof of the cave near the center of the earth is painted plaster
stars and sleeping in a corner your bike
walls light up with the cry of a reflection of beautiful candle edged
leaves do not fall in autumn and the grinding wheel sharpening
there dreams and from one hundred months ago
lives hidden there and a girl who is lost
each season and a girl who does not return in each season. Barked
This is the sharpener Michelangelo,
I bark like a dog, San
nights storm Adam
sighing when the distant flute sounds, flute grinder. Chiquita
not go beyond the mountain where the knives fly,
memories in darkness and nice legs.

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No Peace

The soul enters only via symptoms via marginal phenomena such as imagination of the artists or alchemy or "primitive" and, of course, disguised as psychopathology. That is what Jung meant when he said that the Gods have become diseases: the only way back to them in a Christian world is via the outcast.

(James Hillman, trans. Of E. Eskenazi)

James Hillman:: About

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find peace when we are no longer tied to things, when we do not want anything,

So we leave in peace.

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Is death a superorgasmo?

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Is there no more beauty in a clump of lavender in a symphony orchestra?


Source: Forums.

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Early Spring

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When evening falls

When evening falls and the end stop the noise, the workers have been to almost seven and now gets dark then put something on the record player, in this case an LP with of Finland Sibelius to hook from the front, then something that appeals more to me, Swan of Tuonela . On the B side continues with the Nordic and swilling Grieg Suite No. 1 Peer Gynt , and topped the function the Swedish Rhapsody No. 1 by Hugo Alfvén , a composer who had not heard anything, and whose music is kind and full of warmth, as in this piece a bit overblown. The recording is from Columbia, with the Orchestra. Philadelphia who led Eugene Ormandy, always effective, but ideal for this repertoire is Neeme Järvi (BIS).

Somebody asked me who I am: a stranger.

Why I like contemporary music (and not like in the nineties): because it is unpredictable, it surprises me, because it does not answer questions. Why reinvent the silence, falls, and it showed this weekend in Madrid with the integral Rihm's string quartets, the stronger German composer.

Where I live: let's say you live in southern Spain, in a supposedly civilized country but could do much more for the world, rather than both claim to be the world's eighth largest economy. This is what happens to the new rich, who think only of your new car.

Juan March Foundation itself is that it is a blessed place, and from there will take the next Euro-Radio concert, on Monday.

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A warm winter



hear the Winterreise Schubert version of Olaf Bär Geoffrey Parsons, those songs of despair. Everything is frozen here, there is little consolation in the thought of a spring that is only a dream. Tears are frozen, the vane moves to the arid unceasing wind. The heart is sore. In the end, the singer goes on, exhausted, and hoped that those words in the wind to reach somewhere.