jueves, 11 de julio de 2013

Home sweet home









París, julio de 2013: Jim, Amanda Palmer, amigos, calor, paseos, libros... Acabo de volver y ya lo echo de menos.





domingo, 23 de junio de 2013

The Bluest Eye

He used to come easing into bed sometimes, not too drunk. I make out like Im asleep, cause its late, and he taken three dollars out of my pocketbook that morning or something. I hear him breathing, but I dont look around. I can see in my minds eye his black arms thrown back behind his head, the muscles like great big peach stones sanded down, with veins running like little swollen rivers down his arms. Without touching him I be feeling those ridges on the tips of my fingers I sees the palms of his hands calloused to granite, and the long fingers curled up and still. I think about the thick, knotty hair on his chest, and the two big swells his breast muscles make. I want to rub my face hard in his chest and feel the hair cut my skin. I know just where the hair growth slacks out -just above his navel- and how it picks up again and spreads out. Maybe hell shift a little, and his leg will touch me, or I feel his flank just graze my behind. I dont move even yet. Then he lift his head, turn over, and put his hand on my waist. If I dont move, hell move his hand over to pull and knead my stomach. Soft and slow-like. I still dont move, because I dont want him to stop. I want to pretend sleep and have him keep on rubbing my stomach. Then he will lean his head down and bite my tit. Then I dont want him to rub my stomach anymore. I want him to put his hand between my legs. I pretend to wake up, and turn to him, but not opening my legs. I want him to open them for me. He does, and I be soft and wet where his fingers are strong and hard. I be softer than I ever been before. All my strength in his hand. My brain curls up like wilted leaves. A funny, empty feeling is in my hands. I want to grab holt of something, so I hold his head. His mouth is under my chin. Then I dont want his hand between my legs no more, because I think Im softening away. I stretch my legs open, and he is on top of me. Too heavy to hold, and too light not to. He puts his thing in me. In me. I wrap my feet around his back so he cant get away. His face is next to mine. The bed springs sounds like them crickets used to back home. He puts his fingers in mine, and we stretches our arms outwise like Jesus on the cross. I hold on tight. My fingers and my feet hold on tight, because everything else is going, going. I know he wants me to come first. But I cant. Not until he does. Not until I feel him loving me. Just me. Sinking into me. Not until I know that my flesh is all that be on his mind. That he couldnt stop if he had to. That he would die rather than take his thing out of me. Of me. Not until he has let go of all he has, and give it to me. To me. To me. When he does, I feel a power. I be strong, I be pretty, I be young. And then I wait. He shivers and tosses his head. Now I be strong enough, pretty enough and young enough to let him make me come. I take my fingers out of his and put my hands on his behind. My legs drop back onto the bed. I dont make no noise, because the chilren might hear. I begin to feel those little bits of color floating up into me deep in me. That streak of green from the june-bug light, the purple from the berries trickling along my thighs, mamas lemonade yellow runs sweet in me. Then I feel like Im laughing between my legs, and the laughing gets all mixed up with the colors, and Im afraid Ill come, and afraid I wont. But I know I will. And I do. And it be rainbow all inside. And it lasts and lasts and lasts. I want to thank him, but dont know how, so I pat him like you do a baby. He asks me if Im all right. I say yes. He gets off me and lies down to sleep. I want to say something, but I dont. I dont want to take my mind offen the rainbow. I should get up and go to the toilet, but I dont. Besides, he is asleep with his leg throwed over me. I cant move and dont want to.

Toni Morrison

sábado, 25 de mayo de 2013

I would have told you if you'd only asked me


Empezó con Amanda Palmer y el círculo se cierra con ella de nuevo. En este caso, porque el viaje a París es para ir a su concierto, pero una vuelve a estar soltera y la ciudad de la luz es mi destino tradicional de turismo sexual.

Oh, Amanda. Esta canción lo resume todo. Mi primogénita seguirá llevando tu nombre, pero tendrá un apellido francés...





Exhibit A
We are friends in a sleeping bag splitting the heat
We have one filthy pillow to share and your lips are in my hair
Someone upstairs has a rat that we laughed at
And people are drinking
And singing Van Halen and Slayer on a ukulele tear

Exhibit B
Well, we found an apartment
It’s not much to look at
A futon on a floor
Torn-off desktop for a door
All the decor's made of milk crates and duct tape
And if we have sex
They can hear us through the floor
But we don’t do that anymore

And I lay there wondering, what is the matter?
Is this a matter of worse or of better?
You took the blanket, so I took the bedsheet
But I would have held you if you'd only

Let me

Exhibit C
Look how quaint
And how quiet and private
Our paychecks have bought us a condo in town
It's the nicest flat around
You picked a mattress and had it delivered
And I walked upstairs
And the sight of it made my heart pound
And I wrapped my arms around me

And I stood there wondering, what is the matter?
Is this a matter of worse or of better?
You walked right past me and straightened the covers
But I would still love you if you wanted a lover
And you said
All the money in the world
Won't buy a bed so big and wide
To guarantee that you won't accidentally touch me
In the night

Exhibit D
Now we're both mostly paralyzed
Don't know how long we've been lying here in fear
Too afraid to even feel
I find my glasses and you turn the light out
Roll off on your side
Like you've rolled away for years
Holding back those king-size tears

And I still don't ask you, what is the matter?
Is this a matter of worse or of better?
You take the heart failure
I'll take the cancer
I've long stopped wondering why you don't answer

Exhibit E
You can certainly see how fulfilling a life
From the cost and size of stone of our final resting home
We got some nice ones right under a cherry tree
You and me lying the only way we know
Side by side and still and cold

And I finally ask you, what was the matter?
Was it a matter of worse or of better?
You stretch your arms out and finally face me
You say I would have told you

If you'd only asked me
If you'd only asked me
If you'd only asked me

viernes, 29 de marzo de 2013

Mad Girl's Love Song


tumblr



I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

Sylvia Plath

miércoles, 27 de marzo de 2013

La Belle Dame sans Merci

John William Waterhouse



O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
‘I love thee true’.

She took me to her Elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
Thee hath in thrall!’

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

John Keats, 1819.




miércoles, 20 de febrero de 2013

Why so silent

Últimamente me ha dado por revidear mis vídeos favoritos en youtube. Wallflowers y Doors aparte, tengo que confesar que entre mis vídeos favoritos están los que homenajean películas, especialmente de cine mudo. Hoy toca entrada tipo "Vintage MTV" (véase, cuando todo eran vídeos musicales).










Pero no sólo de cine mudo vive una. Blur y sus homenajes a Kubrick y a Resnais.





Momento moñas con Truffaut, pero qué monada de canción...



Momento friki ochentero...


Y momento emo, pero qué maravilla de vídeo.

viernes, 18 de enero de 2013

Old Lady

Desde ayer estoy oficialmente fuera del club de los 27; el Consorte entra este domingo en la treintena por la puerta grande...



Cada vez me veo más cerca de Big Edie... 

Just tea for two
And two for tea
Just me for you
And you for me...alone

martes, 15 de enero de 2013

Dahlia




Elizabeth Short era una jovencita que quería ser actriz, y hoy en día se la recuerda como el ejemplo de lo que les puede pasar a las chicas jóvenes e inocentes que llegaban a Hollywood con la maleta llena de sueños que luego se convertían en pesadillas.

Enamorada del cine, decidió viajar con diecinueve años desde su Massachussetts natal hasta la soleada California para visitar a su padre. Tras pasar una temporada con él, éste la echó de casa por no trabajar y por salir con demasiados hombres; la arrestaron por beber siendo menor de edad y la enviaron de vuelta a Massachussetts.

En 1946 volvió a California, donde comenzó a frecuentar los clubes nocturnos más famosos, y a hacerse conocida en ellos. Normalmente era la acompañante de hombres ricos y así se ganaba la cena. Siempre vestida de negro, sus amigos la rebautizaron como la Dalia Negra, aludiendo a una de sus películas favoritas, La Dalia Azul. Más tarde, tanto la policía como la prensa hablaría de ella bajo ese alias.

El 9 de enero de 1947 fue la última vez que se la vio con vida, en el vestíbulo del hotel Biltmore de Los Ángeles. Allí la dejó su última cita, un supuesto productor que la ayudaría a encontrar papeles en películas importantes, pero que lo único que quería era acostarse con ella. Elizabeth había quedado allí con unos amigos que nunca aparecieron.

No se volvió a saber nada de Elizabeth Short hasta el día 15 de enero de 1947, cuando una mujer que paseaba con su hija encontró su cuerpo en un solar vacío. Alguien había mutilado a Short, cortada por la mitad, sin rastro alguno de sangre ni huellas, eviscerada y con una sonrisa cortando su boca de oreja a oreja, además de presentar signos de tortura y de una brutal violación.

Acuarela de Marilyn Manson


Se investigó a numerosos sospechosos, pero, a día de hoy, el caso de la Dalia Negra, uno de los más famosos de las historia criminal, sigue sin resolver.


domingo, 13 de enero de 2013

Janet Hill

Hace unos días, mientras perdía el tiempo en tumblr (sí, ese tiempo que debería dedicar a terminar la traducción de Angela Carter o en hacer el trabajo sobre Baudelaire y Poe) me topé con un bonito cuadro de una cocina, en tonos pastel y colores vivos y con apetitosas tartas. En definitiva, muy mono todo ello.

 




La artista es la canadiense Janet Hill, y después de darme un garbeo por su página web, puedo afirmar que me encantan todos sus cuadros, tanto sus cuadros de interiores como sus retratos.


















En su tienda de etsy se pueden comprar láminas de sus pinturas al óleo a muy buen precio (porque me da a mí que los originales se me saldrían del presupuesto). Ya le he echado el ojo a alguna, que en dos semanas una se muda y hay que decorar el pisito nuevo...



Ayyyy, no sé cuál elegir...

martes, 8 de enero de 2013

Moneando

...que es gerundio. Atrapada en casa alargando las vacaciones navideñas anginas y otitis mediante, me dedico a perder el tiempo con las aplicaciones de fotografía del telefonito en vez de estar haciendo trabajos del máster (los ejemplares de Manhattan Transfer me miran tristes desde la cama).



Y a hacerles fotos a los regalos que nos han traído los Reyes.

El regalo de Sus Majestades a Choné. Her Majesty.


Mi familia / Reyes Magos también me hacen regalos frikis.


Voy a seguir vagueando un rato. Esperaré la llegada del Consorte acompañada de Jaime Lannister...