"A career? I've thought about this quite a bit sir and I would have to say considering what's waiting out there for me, I don't want to sell anything, buy anything or process anything as a career. I dont want to sell anything bought or processed or buy anything sold or processed or repair anything sold, bought or processed as a career. I dont want to do that. My father's in the army. He wants me to join, but I can't work for that corporation, so what I've been doing lately is kick-boxing, which is a new sport...as far as career longevity, I dont really know. I cant figure it all out tonight, sir, so I'm just gonna hang with your daughter."
Lloyd Dobler, Say Anything. Gotta LOVE John Cusack.
The major difference between a thing that might go wrong and a thing that cannot possibly go wrong is that when a thing that cannot possibly go wrong goes wrong it usually turns out to be impossible to get at or repair
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams
To summarize: it is a well-known fact that those people who most want to rule people are, ipso facto, those least suited to do it. To summarize the summary: anyone capable of getting themselves made President should by no means be allowed to do the job. To summarize the summary of the summary: people are a problem.
"The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy", Douglas Adams
Que Alan Rickman y Stephen Fry esten en la pelicula, ayuda, pero me enamore del libro primero. Lo juro. Ahora que lo pienso en algun punto voy a hablar de este libro en That's All I'm Saying. Asi de groso es.
Col. Jessep: Son, we live in a world that has walls, and those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Whose gonna do it? You? You, Lt. Weinburg? I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You weep for Santiago, and you curse the marines. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know. That Santiago's death, while tragic, probably saved lives. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives. You don't want the truth because deep down in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me on that wall, you need me on that wall. We use words like honor, code, loyalty. We use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom that I provide, and then questions the manner in which I provide it. I would rather you just said thank you, and went on your way, Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a weapon, and stand a post. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you are entitled to.
Jack Nicholson en "A Few Good Men". La pelicula más guilty pleasure de la historia.
Cal: [David and Cal Playing a video Game] You're *gay* now? David: No, I'm not gay I'm just celibate. Cal: I think? I mean, that sounds ga- I just want you to know this is like the first conversation of like three conversations that leads to you being gay. Like... there's this and then in a year it's like, "Oh you know, I kinda wanna, ya know, get back out there but I think I like guys" and then there's the big, "Oh I'm I'm a g-gay guy now". David: You're gay for saying that. Cal: I'm gay for saying that? David: You know how I know you're gay? Cal: How? How do you know I'm gay? David: Because you macramed yourself a pair of jean shorts. Cal: You know how I know *you're* gay? You just told me you're not sleeping with women any more. David: You know how I know that you're gay? Cal: How? Cuz you're gay? and you can tell who other gay people are. David: You know how I know you're gay? Cal: How? David: You like Coldplay. You know how I know you're gay? Cal: How? David: Your dick tastes like shit. You know how I know that you're gay? Cal: How? David: You like the movie "Maid in Manhattan". Cal: You know how I know *you're* gay? David: How? Cal: I saw you make a spinach dip in a loaf of sour dough bread once. David: You know how I know that you're gay? Cal: How? David: You have a rainbow bumpersticker on your car that says "I love it when *balls* are in my face". Cal: That's *gay*? David: [David loses second match] Goddamnit! Cal: I'm ripping your head off right now. It's off, and *now* I'm throwing it at your body. [shouts] Cal: Fuck you! David: Aww.
What came first, the music or the misery? People worry about kids playing with guns, or watching violent videos, that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?
[Michael is kneeling alone in a room at the corpse of Don Tommasino in a coffin]
Michael Corleone: Goodbye my old friend. You could have lived a little longer, I could be closer to my dream. You were so loved, Don Tommasino. Why was I so feared, and you so loved? What was it? I was no less honorable. I wanted to do good. What betrayed me? My mind? My heart? Why do I condemn myself so? I swear, on the lives of my children: Give me a chance to redeem myself, and I will sin no more.
La pelicula que solo Al Pacino y Mario Puzzo pudieron salvar.
Michael C: Kay, what do you want from me? Do you expect me to let you go, to let you take my children from me? Don’t you know me? Don’t you know that that’s an impossibility? That I’d use all my power to keep that from happening? Don’t you know that? Kay… In time, you’ll feel differently. You’ll be glad I stopped you now. I know that. I know you blame me for losing the baby. Yes. I know what that meant to you. I’ll make it up to you, Kay. I swear I’ll make it up to you. I’II… I’m going to change. I’ll change. I’ve learned that I have the strength to change. Then you’ll forget about this miscarriage and we’ll have another child. And we’ll go on, you and I. We’ll go on.
Kay A: -Oh, Michael! Michael, you are blind. It wasn’t a miscarriage. It was an abortion. An abortion, Michael! Just like our marriage is an abortion. Something that’s unholy and evil! I didn’t want your son, Michael! I wouldn’t bring another one of your sons into this world! It was an abortion, Michael. It was our son… and I had it killed because this must all end! I know now that it’s over. I knew it then. There would be no way, Michael, no way you could ever forgive me. Not with this Sicilian thing that’s been going on for 2,000 years!
Kay Adams: Michael, you never told me your family knew Johnny Fontane!
Michael: Oh sure, you want to meet him?
Kay Adams: Yeah!
Michael: You know, my father helped Johnny in his career.
Kay Adams: Really? How?
Michael: ...Let's listen to this song.
Kay Adams: Please, Michael. Tell me.
Michael: ...Well when Johnny was first starting out, he was signed to this contract with a big-band leader. And as his career got better and better he wanted to get out of it. Now, Johnny is my father's godson. My father went to see the bandleader, with a contract for $10,000 to let Johnny go, but the bandleader said no. So the next day, my father went to see the bandleader again, only this time with Luca Brasi. Within an hour, the bandleader signed the release, with a certified check of $1000.
Kay Adams: How did he do that?
Michael: My father made him an offer he couldn't refuse.
Kay Adams: What was it?
Michael: My father held a gun to his head, and my father assured the bandleader, that either his signature or his brains would be on the contract.
Kay Adams: ...
Michael: ...That's a true story. [pause] That's my family Kay, it's not me.
Little boxes on the hillside, Little boxes made of tickytacky Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes all the same There's a green one and a pink one and a blue one and a yellow one And they're all made out of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.
And the people in the houses all went to the university Where they were put in boxes and they came out all the same, And there's doctors and there's lawyers, and business executives And they're all made out of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.
And they all play on the golf course and drink their martinis dry, And they all have pretty children and the children go to school And the children go to summer camp and then to the university Where they are put in boxes and they come out all the same.
And the boys go into business and marry and raise a family In boxes made of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.
Un hombre que cultiva su jardín, como quería Voltaire. El que agradece que en la tierra haya música. El que descubre con placer una etimología. Dos empleados que en un café del Sur juegan un silencioso ajedrez. El ceramista que premedita un color y una forma. El tipógrafo que compone bien esta página, que tal vez no le agrada. Una mujer y un hombre que leen los tercetos finales de cierto canto. El que acaricia a un animal dormido. El que justifica o quiere justificar un mal que le han hecho. El que agradece que en la tierra haya Stevenson. El que prefiere que los otros tengan razón. Esas personas, que se ignoran, están salvando el mundo.
Jorge Luis Borges.
Es increible y tonto pero cada vez que leo "Los Justos" me dan muchas ganas de llorar. Y no tiene que ver con una tristeza escondida pero con una esperanza secreta de que en lo cotidiano esta parte de la magia.
If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or, being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with triumph and disaster And treat those two imposters just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to broken, And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breath a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch; If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run - Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!
All my life has been a mystery You and I were never ever meant to be That's why I call my love for you a mystery
Different country You and I have always lived in a different country And I know that airline tickets don't grown on a tree So what kept us apart is plain for me to see That much at least is not really a mystery
Estuary I live in a houseboat on an estuary Which is handy for my work with the Thames Water Authority But I know that you would have found it insanitry Insanitry
Taken a violent dislike to me I'd be foolish to ignore the possibilities That if we had ever actually met you might have hated me Still, that's not the only problem that I can see
Dead since 1973 You've been dead now.. wait a minute let me see Fifteen years come next January As a human being you are history
So why do I still long for you? Why is my love so strong for you? Why did I write this song for you? Well.. I guess it's just a mystery
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good.
W. H. Auden
Este youtube se pone bueno a los 6 minutos cuando, in between tears, leen esto. Gotta love gay poetry.
“Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaky feeling you'll find that love actually is all around.”
Most people think life sucks, and then you die. Not me. I beg to differ. I think life sucks, then you get cancer, then your dog dies, your wife leaves you, the cancer goes into remission, you get a new dog, you get remarried, you owe ten million dollars in medical bills but you work hard for thirty-five years and you pay it back and then -- one day -- you have a massive stroke, your whole right side is paralyzed, you have to limp along the streets and speak out of the left side of your mouth and drool but you go into rehabilitation and regain the power to walk and the power to talk and then -- one day -- you step off a curb at Sixty-seventh Street, and BANG you get hit by a city bus and then you die. Maybe.
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way--in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only..."
Charles Dickens, "A Tale of Two Cities". Lo pueden leer (completito!) acá. A las tres personas que me tienen en Bloglines: LOS AMO.
"PostSecret is an ongoing community art project where people mail in their secrets anonymously on one side of a homemade postcard. New secrets are posted here every Sunday
Vosotros que surgiréis del Marasmo, en el que nosotros nos hemos hundido, cuando habléis de nuestras debilidades, pensad también en los tiempos sombríos de lo que habéis escapado. Cambiábamos de país como de zapatos a través de las guerras de clases y nos desesperábamos donde solo había injusticia y nadie se alzaba contra ella. Y, sin embargo, sabíamos que también el odio contra la bajeza desfiguraba la cara, también la ira contra la injusticia pone ronca la voz. Desgraciadamente, nosotros que queríamos preparar el camino para la amabilidad no pudimos ser amables. Pero vosotros cuando lleguen los tiempos en el que el hombre sea amigo del hombre, pensad en nosotros con indulgencia.
Nadie lee este blog pero igual les dejo esta canción hermosa (y casi imposible de conseguir en internet) de Micah Hinson. De nada.
Aparte es RE facil de sacar en la guitarra. Me dejan un mensaje en That's All I'm Saying , les explico y payamos un rato. ¿No es re argentina esa palabra; "payar"?
My father thought it bloody queer, the day I rolled home with a ring of silver in my ear half hidden by a mop of hair. "You’ve lost your head. If that’s how easily you’re led you should’ve had it through your nose instead." And even then I hadn’t had the nerve to numb the lobe with ice, then drive a needle through the skin, then wear a safety-pin. It took a jeweller’s gun to pierce the flesh, and then a friend to thread the sleeper in, and where it slept the hole became a sore, became a wound, and wept.
At twenty-nine, it comes as no surprise to hear my own voice breaking like a tear, released like water, cried from way back in the spiral of the ear. If I were you, I’d take it out and leave it out next year.
"Your writing can help change the way the world is. By making it public, by showing suffering, by showing war, by showing corruption, by showing misdemeanor... you're going to help change it. But when the time comes to hang up your boots as I'm just about doing, you realize that you've done very little to change the world. All you've done is to advertise its ills. Its a very sad epitaph."
Hagan click. O sea, ¿como pueden decirle que NO a una canción con ese nombre tan apetitoso? Vengo cantando esta cancion hace dias. Todo lo de Jack Johnson (especialmente "In Between Dreams") es moi recomendable.
If I could be a lovely chap Life would fall into my lap And all my words would sound so nice You'd want to hear me say them twice. But what I want to say to you Is only what I think is true And so, alas, I'll always be A rather unattractive me.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word—like Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
Este es el discurso que usualmente Severus Snape, Potions Master, Half Blood Prince and Dumbledore's man through and through, les da a los first years.
"'Hang on a moment!' said Ron sharply. 'We've forgotten someone!' 'Who?' asked Hermione. 'The house-elves, they'll all be down in the kitchens, won't they?' 'You mean we ought to get them fighting?' asked Harry. 'No,' said Ron seriously, 'I mean we should tell them to get out. We don't want any more Dobbys, do we? We can't order them to die for us –' There was a clatter as the Basilisk fangs cascaded out of Hermione's arms. Running at Ron, she flung them around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth. Ron threw away the fangs and broomstick he was holding and responded with such enthusiasm that he lifted Hermione off her feet."
The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don't mind happiness not always being so very much fun if you don't mind a touch of hell now and then just when everything is fine because even in heaven they don't sing all the time
The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don't mind some people dying all the time or maybe only starving some of the time which isn't half bad if it isn't you
Oh the world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don't much mind a few dead minds in the higher places or a bomb or two now and then in your upturned faces or such other improprieties as our Name Brand society is prey to with its men of distinction and its men of extinction and its priests and other patrolmen and its various segregations and congressional investigations and other constipations that our fool flesh is heir to.
Yes the world is the best place of all for a lot of such things as making the fun scene and making the love scene and making the sad scene and singing low songs and having inspirations and walking around looking at everything and smelling flowers and goosing statues and even thinking and kissing people and making babies and wearing pants and waving hats and dancing and going swimming in rivers on picnics in the middle of the summer and just generally 'living it up' Yes but then right in the middle of it comes the smiling mortician
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Esta poesia esta escrita en el espejo de mi cuarto. ¿No es re linda?
No te habrá de salvar lo que dejaron escrito aquellos que tu miedo implora; no eres los otros y te ves ahora centro del laberinto que tramaron tus pasos. No te salva la agonía de Jesús o de Sócrates ni el fuerte Siddharta de oro que aceptó la muerte en un jardín, al declinar el día. Polvo también es la palabra escrita por tu mano o el verbo pronunciado por tu boca. No hay lástima en el Hado y la noche de Dios es infinita. Tu materia es el tiempo, el incesante tiempo. Eres cada solitario instante.
Bueno, en este blog (chiquitito, muy chiquitito) voy a "colgar" (nunca me gustó mucho esa palabra) fragmentos de cosas que me parezcan interesantes. En realidad este blog es para mi. Pero también lo quería compartir.
posted by Florence at 
