About China 15:09

The latests from China. What is really actually broadcast on the statal TV channels. It differs a little bit from the nice image they're trying to impose to the west.

As últimas da China. O que realmente passa nos canais da televisão estatal. Afasta-se um bocado da linha que estão tentar impor ao Ocidente.

Zeni Geva 12:51

Zeni Geva are from Japan and made it as a heavy metal, with tendencies to noise, but also experimental, and why not, industrial, and more than that to harcore punk and some even say progressive. I love those labels, don't you? Just pick up your favorite and stick it on your forehead.



Zeni Geva são uma banda japonesa, muito parecidos com heavy metal, com algumas tendências para o noise, e porque não, para o industrial, e mais ainda para o punk hardcore, e há mesmo quem jura para o progressivo. Eu como adoro conotações e etiquetas (de bom comportamento) aconselho-vos a escolher a vossa preferida e espetá-la na testa.

Zeni Geva (1995) finale


K.K. NULL - 2007


zeni geva - nai-ha/superunit 12"

Potemkin II 15:32

Here is link to the movie. I only can find a version with Spanish subtitles.

Serguei Eisenstein - Potemkine 14:17

Ficam aqui algumas imagens de Potemkine filme de 1925 de Serguei Eisenstein, sobre os acontecimentos de 1905 em Odessa que iriam dar início à revolução russa. Já muito se escreveu sobre S.E. e a sua obra, grande parte das teorias cinematográficas nascem dos filmes dele, as técnicas de montagem, o ritmo, a fotografia, os enquadramentos, as composições e por aí fora. O filme consegue ter todos os elementos que fazem dele ser moderno e que ainda nos dias de hoje, até a ingenuidade idealista comunista está incluída. Preferido durante uns tempos pelo poder soviético, Eisenstein acabou por ser evacuado para a Ásia Central (Siberia?), quando os alemães estavam às portas de Moscovo e quando Staline achou que estava a ser criticado, mas esse é o Ivan o Terrível, outra história.



I´ve got here a few images from Potemkine, the 1925 movie by Serguei Eisenstein, about the events in 1905 that would trigger the Russian revolution. A lot has already been said about S.E. and his work, great deal of the cinema theories, are born from his movies, the montage tecniques, the rythm, the photography, the image composition and so on. The movies has all the elements that make it modern even by today´s standards, even the idealistic communist naiveness is present. Prefered for a while by the Soviet power, Eisenstein has ended his life sent to Central Asia (Siberia?), when the Germans were at Moscow´s gates and when Stalin saw he was being criticized, but that one is Ivan the Terrible, and it´s just another story.

25 de Abril 18:41

Durão Barroso e o ensino burguês
Do tempo em que o Mao era o único sol que brilhava no céu vermelho. Nada temeremos enquanto seguirmos o grande timoneiro Cherne.



Comprativa
"Isto é meu, é deles, é de todo o mundo!"
"´tá bem. Eu é que trabalho com ela!"
Um deles é um génio, o outro um pateta. Vejam-lá se acertem e descobrem quem é quem.

Tao & Qi 22:38

Um programa no canal Arte sobre o Qi, a energia vital e sobre taoistas na China. Sobressaiem algumas imagens.
O Qi flui no corpo por entre canais invisíveis cuja existência ninguém ainda conseguiu provar. O que é certo é que a medicina chinesa existe há séculos e a acunputura uma práctica comum que não pode ser negada.

A program on Arte about Qi, the vital energy and Taoists in China. A few gorgeous pictures emerge. The Qi flows in the body through invisible channels which existence nobody has yet proven . The fact is that Chinese traditional medicine exists for centuries and acunpuncture a commun practice which can´t be denied.

Léo Ferré - La Mémoire et la Mer 20:22

Léo Ferré - La Mémoire et la Mer


La mémoire et la mer
by Léo Ferré
La marée, je l'ai dans le cœur
Qui me remonte comme un signe
Je meurs de ma petite sœur, de mon enfance et de mon cygne
Un bateau, ça dépend comment
On l'arrime au port de justesse
Il pleure de mon firmament
Des années lumières et j'en laisse
Je suis le fantôme jersey
Celui qui vient les soirs de frime
Te lancer la brume en baiser
Et te ramasser dans ses rimes
Comme le trémail de juillet
Où luisait le loup solitaire
Celui que je voyais briller
Aux doigts de sable de la terre

Rappelle-toi ce chien de mer
Que nous libérions sur parole
Et qui gueule dans le désert
Des goémons de nécropole
Je suis sûr que la vie est là
Avec ses poumons de flanelle
Quand il pleure de ces temps là
Le froid tout gris qui nous appelle
Je me souviens des soirs là-bas
Et des sprints gagnés sur l'écume
Cette bave des chevaux ras
Au raz des rocs qui se consument
Ö l'ange des plaisirs perdus
Ö rumeurs d'une autre habitude
Mes désirs dès lors ne sont plus
Qu'un chagrin de ma solitude

Et le diable des soirs conquis
Avec ses pâleurs de rescousse
Et le squale des paradis
Dans le milieu mouillé de mousse
Reviens fille verte des fjords
Reviens violon des violonades
Dans le port fanfarent les cors
Pour le retour des camarades
Ö parfum rare des salants
Dans le poivre feu des gerçures
Quand j'allais, géométrisant,
Mon âme au creux de ta blessure
Dans le désordre de ton cul
Poissé dans des draps d'aube fine
Je voyais un vitrail de plus,
Et toi fille verte, mon spleen

Les coquillages figurant
Sous les sunlights cassés liquides
Jouent de la castagnette tans
Qu'on dirait l'Espagne livide
Dieux de granits, ayez pitié
De leur vocation de parure
Quand le couteau vient s'immiscer
Dans leur castagnette figure
Et je voyais ce qu'on pressent
Quand on pressent l'entrevoyure
Entre les persiennes du sang
Et que les globules figurent
Une mathématique bleue,
Sur cette mer jamais étale
D'où me remonte peu à peu
Cette mémoire des étoiles

Cette rumeur qui vient de là
Sous l'arc copain où je m'aveugle
Ces mains qui me font du fla-fla
Ces mains ruminantes qui meuglent
Cette rumeur me suit longtemps
Comme un mendiant sous l'anathème
Comme l'ombre qui perd son temps
À dessiner mon théorème
Et sous mon maquillage roux
S'en vient battre comme une porte
Cette rumeur qui va debout
Dans la rue, aux musiques mortes
C'est fini, la mer, c'est fini
Sur la plage, le sable bêle
Comme des moutons d'infini...
Quand la mer bergère m'appelle

Edgar Allan Poe - The Raven 00:36

1845
THE RAVEN
by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door;-
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-
'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and
flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed
he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no
craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown
before-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never- nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and
door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he
hath sent thee
Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or
devil!-
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-
Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or
devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked,
upstarting-
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my
door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the
floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted- nevermore!

-THE END-

source:
http://infomotions.com/etexts/literature/american/1800-1899/poe-raven-702.htm