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29.05.13

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Ryan G. Van Cleave - "Cantina Band, Black Ops"

29.05.13

I was in a bad place when I visited Tony in Grand Forks, ND,
        emotionally coked to the gills from a break-up
with a live-in girlfriend who once devoured the world with
        sweetness but now wanted to sleep with the stars
not in Hollywood or LA, but in Branson, MO, where my cousin


Frank, played the congas with a Donny Osmond imposter named Stu.
        Tony, an O-3 in the Air Force (Captain) who likes to
lecture me in Spanish, said Más que una pobre vida resbaló por tus brazos/
        more than one poor life slithered from your arms. I said
hey thanks, and felt blind, like my eyelids were errant, wooden. I know


what’ll make you feel better, Tony said, then ushered me onto the military
        base through Star Trek security, retina-scans, the whole she-
bang including a body cavity search station (he vouched me through)
        and a crimson laser system that scanned you for weapons.
We stepped out into a subterranean dome, and there in its dark belly,


the tremor of the world, a US Polaris A-3 nuclear missile, a glorious
        harpoon large enough to spear the moon, it seemed. Tony
nodded as I trembled like wheat on a plain; he said they took me here
        the day I was assigned to special assignment. You know, spy-
stuff, but it’s mostly boring. No missiles or death-lasers or anything. This is


much cooler. I asked Special assignment? Is that something like black ops?
        He laughed and told me that was a term only in the movies.
Go ahead and touch it, he said, meaning the inert, mock-up missile. It’s just
        the casing, but this baby once could’ve taken out Cleveland.
I touched the rather mundane steel, thinking more of my friend at a com-


ops station, speaking the same silent language as the stars, a binary thrum
        that inhabits the sky like lightning. We went to an off-base bar
called The Cantina which sizzled with energy from a five-piece combo
        blasting out old Ellington tunes to a handful of uniformed
officers, a couple of locals in jeans, and two women who took turns


applying makeup to each other. First, lipstick the color of slag lava,
        then eyeliner and powder and something else that involved
a wicked-looking brush. Great music here, huh? Tony said, ordering us
        a screwdrivers as he shuffled atop the cracked peanut shells
that carpeted the floor. We drank and watched the trumpet player wail,


his cheeks puffing wide like Dizzy’s in tempestuous blue as he launched
        note after note into the stratosphere, and I could almost see
myself arcing through the clouds like a US Peace Missile II, or a Soviet
        SS-23, everything around me scorching into flame as I burn
across the sky, Tony tracking me on a screen as I strike my old apartment,


where my ex is packing, planting kisses on her autographed photo of Andy
        Williams, Wayne Newton, Yakov Smirnov. Ground Zero.

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Impecabilidade

28.05.13

It seems to me that enough values that did not depend on us are in the process of dying so that at least we do not desert those for which we are responsible. I have no illusions as to the fruitfulness of this attitude. But at least it is in my nature, and I am holding on to it.


Albért Camus

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P'ang Yun - "Mind at Peace"

27.05.13
When the mind is at peace,
the world too is at peace.
Nothing real,
nothing absent.
Not holding on to reality,
not getting stuck in the void,
you are neither holy or wise,
just an ordinary fellow who has completed his work.

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Laughed way too hard

25.05.13

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"Heroin in Tahiti"

23.05.13

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Barulhinho bom

22.05.13

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Diane Stone - "Why Men Go Crabbing"

21.05.13

Something about men and boats:
the hopeful way they nod
to each other, even
before the wind kicks up
and grants permission.


The honest way men clamber
over gunwales, hauling bum knees,
muscles stiff from wading
through cold waves
with traps and oars in hand,
out of breath and out of shape
yet willing to lend tired arms to pain.


They know the rules of daily limits
and closed waters, the art of knots
and bait buckets packed
with expectations.
But joy is something else,
something more than reading tides
and steering clear of shoals;
it’s more about—somehow
getting one damn thing just right.

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Músicas que são para a vida toda

20.05.13

 

"Way down south I know a girl who is blind.
She walks alone along a lonely highway each day.
She dreams that one day a man will pull up in a car.
He'll open up the door, she'll climb in and he will say:
"Hey babe, whatcha know? Hope you're ready to go...
'cause today's a perfect day
to chase tornados."
Yeah when the wild wind whips around your head you know,
that you have found a perfect day to chase tornados.

And what about that preacher man on the run from the law?
He killed a girl in Memphis and ran 'till the dogs tracked him down.
They shot him by the river and as he lay dying in the mud,
well someone asked him, hey Preacher, where's your soul going now?
And Preacher said, "Well, I do not know, but wherever it is I'll gladly go...
cause today's a perfect day
to chase tornados."
Yeah when the wild wind kicks around your head you know,
that you have found a perfect day to chase tornados.

Sometimes I think that the sky is a prison and the earth is a grave.
And sometimes I feel like Jesus, in some Chinese opera.
And sometimes I'm glad I built my mansion from crazy little stones.
But sometimes I feel so goddamned trapped by everything that I know.
And I wish it wasn't so, cause the only thing that anyone should ever know
is that today's a perfect day
to chase tornados.
Yeah, when the wild wind whips around your head you know,
that you have found a perfect day to chase tornados."

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