Nostalgia

"La vida no es la que uno vivió, sino lo que uno recuerda y cómo la recuerda para contarla"(Gabriel García Márquez)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9hpBBunULe4

On prend toujours un train pour quelque part...

http://www.trilulilu.ro/codrea/ceb78f8a371dac

"Une gare au petit matin, Deux amours se tiennent la main.Ils sont tristes ou ils sont heureux.On n'en sait rien, mais ils sont deux. La vie c'est ça, tu le sais bien :Un train s'en va, un autre vient.On prend toujours un train pour quelque part,Un grand train bleu, un grand train blanc, un grand train noir.On prend toujours un train pour quelque part.Au bout du quai flottent des mains et des mouchoirs.Toi et moi, nous irons très loin.On s'aimera tant et si bienQue le monde entier n'en sauraNi le comment ni le pourquoi.Un jour, les derniers jours viendront.Nous prendrons le dernier wagon.On prend toujours un train pour quelque part,Un grand train bleu, un grand train blanc, un grand train noir.On prend toujours un train pour quelque part.Au bout du quai flottent des mains, des au revoir."

Gilbert Bécaud

On prend toujours un train pour quelque part
Paroles: Louis Amade. Musique: Gilbert Bécaud 1968

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AC1zTSMICac

Bonjour Tristesse

It seems to me that there are two kinds of trickery: the "fronts" people assume before one another's eyes, and the "front" a writer puts on the face of reality. Francoise Sagan

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kjNkrlLiJQg&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5scv2QJQ-ds&feature=related

Exil

…Por una razón u otra, yo

soy un triste

desterrado. De alguna manera

o de otra, yo

viajo con nuestro territorio y

siguen viviendo

conmigo, allá lejos, las

esencias longitudinales

de mi patria.

Pablo Neruda

From the fabric of life novels are made...

...A novel is a long and patient proposition, like embroidering a tapestry of many threads and colors. I work by instinct, without knowing very well what I am doing, until one day I turn it over and look at the design. I never really end a book, I just give up. There is always more to tell, another twist in the plot, another surprising character, more that could be changed, edited or deepened. A story is a living creature with it's own destiny and my job is to allow it to tell itself. I enjoy the process of writing without thinking much of the final result. That's my agent and my publishers' concern...
I love the time I spend alone and in silence in my study, weeks adding details to create the unique world of the story, months allowing the characters to grow and to talk for themselves, years trying to understand their motivations and their passions. A novel requires passion, patience and dedication, it is a total commitment, like falling in love. For me the first impulse that triggers the writing is always a profound emotion that has been with me for a long time; time reveals the motivations and gives me enough distance, ambiguity and irony to narrate it. It is difficult to write in the middle of the hurricane, it is preferable to recreate the story after the furious winds have passed and I can make some sense of the debris. Struggle, losses, confusion, memory, those are the raw materials of my writing.

Isabel Allende, About My Writing
http://www.isabelallende.com/curious_frame.htm

Plimbare printre papusi

Scotocesc orasul cu bratele mele taiate din cot
intâlnirea aceea dintre apele fetelor noastre goale
dintre caii absenti
Totul s-a nascut ieri, când am oprit ziua
ramasa intre ferestrele ninse de pe bratele scheletului meu.
Am construit o ceata-miasma, plouând intre palmele
noastre
Alerg prin aburul noptilor goale de degetele tale deschise,
marsaluind pe pavajele fara ecouri
Aproape ca scot din mine cu toate unghiile
Carnea albastra pe care-ai uitat-o in subteran
Sub lanternele demodate catre golul acela negru
Astept sa rasari cu picoarele tale incrucisate
din fumul unei tigari pe care nu stiai s-o fumezi,
cu bratele balanganindu-se,
cu zâmbetul tau de film.
Sap dupa tine prin firele parului meu alb
cu degetele in tacerea din care nu-mi amintesc nimic,
si, totusi, aruncam cu cutite negre de circ
si, totusi urlam ca niste paduri
curgeau dansurile noastre din miscarile gurilor
care urau si zâmbeau printre lamele verzi
scoate cu bratele tale de apa incolacita
si fugi de zilele pe care mi le dadeai
am sa ma preling catre cladirile fara geamuri
am sa ma asez in bancile mobilate sumar de
liniile trase prea drept in caietul tau
Initialele curgeau una in alta in goana aceea
speriata a cântecului de seara
ca sa mai ravasesti din nou
dansul absent de sâmbata seara
când cutreier prin toate strazile fara masca
Caut cu bratele mele taiate din cot in cosul cu
ingeri nehotarâti
Bucura-te stând impaiat in galeria ta goala
pe când impungi trupurile galbene
care inca respira in aerul vid
eu cânt fals,
linia de tramvai
simuleaza muzica clasica a drumurilor pustiite

Andrada Fatu-Tutoveanu (2002)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Kjr-RkseNw

Incrustatie (sau pe gaura cheii)

Atârna limbi de taur pe zimti de ceara uda
in care râde pianul legat cu corzi de cerbi
Se leagana marmote in colti de caracuda
Pitici pe frânghii coapte, taiati in cinci, imberbi.
Fetitele urcate pe panglica din sobe
Cutii cu dinti de vulpe in tepi de turn de pin
Papi verzi si metafizici valsând in plâns de tobe
Batrânul cal de sare bând ceai din colt de lin.
Râsi schizofrenici, cuie si pesti cu cozi de crete
Cresc pe o turla veche tepi albi de roti de ceata
Si râd dantele, cai, statui si majorete
Rupându-si brate pline cu câlti si ghips si gheata.

Andrada Fatu-Tutoveanu