Blog korisnika Black Orchid
| a cup of... | |
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| 29 Mar 2007 22:55 | Idi na vrh |
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gigabajti zen-a na kompu, nekoliko polica knjiga. da ih (se) oslobodim? * bolje praznina u umu nego zen na polici. © Black Orchid @ MyCity.rs 2007 moNUmentalno inspirisana by sis' Ella's postings * 10 * the choice * put-ovanje * may be * la neige * guardare, vedere, osservare, scrutare. due. * guardare, vedere, osservare, scrutare. uno. * posle kishnih poplava, here & now * "Ako prouchavamo japansku umetnost, naic'i cemo na choveka, bez sumnje mudrog, dubokoumnog i inteligentnog, koji provodi vreme u...? Prorachunavanju razdaljine izmedju Zemlje i Meseca? Ne. Prouchavanju Bizmarkovih nachela? Ne. U prouchavanju jedne jedine vlati trave." (vinsent van gog) |
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| la quatrieme couleur | |
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| 29 Mar 2007 03:31 | Idi na vrh |
la quatrième couleur... "La double vie de Véronique"
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| was hat dich so... | |
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| 28 Mar 2007 01:19 | Idi na vrh |
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Zerrissen "Warum fühlt es sich so leer an, wenn du mit mir sprichst? Warum fühlt es sich so leer an, wenn du bei mir bist? Warum fühlt es sich so schwer an, wenn wir nichts mehr sagen? Warum können wir nicht reden, nach so vielen Jahren? Warum fühlt es sich so leer an, wenn du mit mir sprichst? Warum fühlt es sich so leer an, wenn du bei mir bist? Warum fühlt es sich so fern an, wenn wir uns noch nah sind? Was bringt mir dieses Leben, wenn du einfach nicht da bist? Deine Haut wird ganz kalt Dein Blick wird ganz leer Dein Atem wird leise Dein Kopf wird ganz schwer Was hat dich so zerrissen? Was hat dich so verletzt? Was hat dich und dein Leben und dein Herz so zerfetzt? Was hat dich so zerrissen? Was hat dich so verletzt? Was hat dich und dein Leben und dein Herz so zerfetzt? Was bringen meine Worte, wenn du sie nicht hörst? Was bringt meine Liebe, wenn du sie nicht spürst? Warum können wir beide uns beide der Wahrheit nicht stellen? Warum kann ich dieses Loch in deinem Herzen nicht füllen? Deine Haut ist ganz kalt Dein Blick wird ganz leer Dein Atem wird leise Und dein Kopf wird ganz schwer Was hat dich so zerrissen? Was hat dich so verletzt? Was hat dich und dein Leben und dein Herz so zerfetzt? Was hat dich so zerrissen? Was hat dich so verletzt? Was hat dich und dein Leben und dein Herz so zerfetzt? Was hat dich so zerrissen? Was hat dich so zerrissen, ...dass du nicht mal mehr weinst? ...dass du nicht mal mehr schreist? ...dass du nicht mal mehr merkst, dass dein Leben zerreist? Was hat dich so zerrissen? Was hat dich so verletzt? Was hat dich und dein Leben und dein Herz so zerfetzt? Was auch immer du tust, Was auch immer du sagst, Ich pass auf dich auf, Ich bleib für dich wach" (Juli) |
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| un acordeón sangriento | |
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| 24 Mar 2007 07:23 | Idi na vrh |
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burn it blue... Wall ::Kao Frida Jednom su anarhistu, vrhunskom trockistu, jednom rekli da je svijet siguran samo na planetu Rivera. Nije se bojao, dok je svijet slikao puškama i barikadama. Pa ipak je pao, u starim danima, postao žrtva strasti. Jedan je Lav Trocki, u Meksiku, na kocki, izgubio život, ali dobio Fridu. Što će mi noge, kad imam krila, Frida se na svoj račun šalila. Kako je živjela, tako je ljubila, na planetu Rivera. Noći punog mjeseca su teške. Ispunjene duhovima. Slikama koje vrište. Ljetnim vrelinama. U pola tri noću, razmišljam tko je sve trebao biti budan. Morao. Nikog nema, osim nas u tuđim tijelima, koja žuljaju. Neudobna su. Smetaju. Veličina baš ne odgovara. Odjeća koju predugo nosite, ali vam nikada nije stajala kao salivena. Ne kao ruka u rukavici, gdje svaki prst ima svoj vlastiti kaput. Noći su uvijek na smetnji, rekao bi pjesnik i bio je u pravu. Utišaju se zvukovi, iz tame izrone likovi i svaki istrese svoju vreću bez dna. Podnosim bez upadica te njihove monologe, jadikovke bez smisla o vremenima, ljudima i običajima. Na mjesečini što razara svi hoće svojih pet minuta, kao da noć traje vječno. Nemaju obzira što amputirani udovi svrbe, što odsječeni prsti imaju fantomsku bol u nekom paralelnom svemiru. Na planetu Rivera, ja bih bio Frida. Ovdje, samo sam jedan od neprilagođenih, koji se izgovaraju na nesanicu. Od onih sam koji neprestano odgađaju trenutak, kada će konačno kupiti boje i kist i početi slikati. Izgovaram se, da zalihe slika u glavi ne mogu presušiti. Dani sustižu jedan drugog, prekratki, površni kako to stvari i horizonti mogu biti na jarkom sunčevom svjetlu... U prolazu otkidam komade ljudi, krajolika i događaja i gutam bez žvakanja. Nemam vremena, sve dok ne padne noć. A onda, borim se s bojama, okusima i mirisima. Kao radoznali kuhar, slažem gorčinu sa slatkim, trpke okuse uz kisele osmijehe koji samo trebaju drukčiji raspored na tanjuru. Noću, pravim modne revije za samog sebe, na pozornicu izvučem najsjajnije osmijehe, najtoplije zagrljaje, najsmjelije snove. Puštam ih da paradiraju, okreću se odvažno oko sebe i ironično osmjehnu na odlasku. Moja je modna revija za samo jednog dizajnera. Jednog gledatelja. Jednog kritičara. I nisu svi ti likovi blagonakloni po definiciji, makar izviru iz mene samog. Ljute se i guraju svoje osobne favorite, svaki od njih ima svojega Diega Riveru. A ja, ja bih bio Frida. Ionako ne volim grandiozne stvari, ne pravim murale u svakodnevnom životu, tek igram neki od likova na njima. Na planetu Rivera, ja bih bio Frida. Ali smrt nikad ne pleše uz moje uzglavlje. Smrt je na planetu Rivera zabranjena, a ja znam da ću kao Metuzalem živjeti vječno. Pa ipak i sam noću slikam vlastite portrete, a neki su zaista teški za gledanje. Na nekima nosim Lenjinovu kapu, možda sam u prijašnjem životu bio na barikadama kod Zimskog dvorca, komunist i anarhist. A danju se priključim tihoj, trpećoj gomili i šutke gutam slobode i čari kapitalizma. U nekoj Mefistovoj ponudi bih možda i izabrao kožu Nelsona Rockefellera, umjesto najamnika-muralista Diega. Ne znam. Ali, da stvarno mogu birati, ja bih bio Frida. Ne podnosim bol, ne uživam u njemu, ali da moram birati, nikad ne bih izabrao odsustvo patnje, mumificirane osmijehe i ravne crte umjesto sinusoida. Radije bih cijelu paletu osjećaja, koji žuljaju kao kamenčić u cipeli, kao nova odjeća i cipele Huckleberryja Finna. Netko je noćas trebao biti budan. Ali, mi ionako pričamo u slikama, a moja su platna razbacana posvuda, iako se ne mogu uokviriti. Svoja platna vješam na vlastiti zid, s kojeg možda otpada žbuka, kojeg nijedna poštena, bogataška obitelj ne bi željela oko vlastitog dvorca. Moj zid nikada neće biti u modi. Baš kao niti njegov brat-blizanac uz željezničku prugu, na kojem najljepše grafite slikaju anonimci. Poput zida sam uz kojeg prolaze automobili, užurbani prolaznici koji kasne na autobus ili vlak i dostava Hrvatske pošte. Moj zid, baš kao i ja, živi u prošlosti. Na njemu je staromodna petokraka, a kukasti križevi još nisu u modi. Ovaj je zid lagan kao pero i često se noću digne u zrak, visoko iznad vlakova i usnulih zgrada. Gori u zraku kao baklja, kao krevet sa umjetnicom slomljenih kostiju i nesalomivog duha. Na planetu Rivera, ja bih bio Frida. Ostalo je još samo malo vremena, dok se okrugli Mjesec ne povuče pred nasrtljivom svjetlošću dana. Ljeta su drska, bez razumijevanja za ljubitelje noći. Ona guraju svoja praskozorja, koja ionako nitko ne dočekuje budan. Čemu ljepota, ako je nitko ne gleda? Zašto prosipati svjetlost i krasti noć što traje prekratko? Baš kao Frida, svakim novim danom umiremo po malo. Ali, tek rijetki znaju, da se noću vrelo ponovno puni vodom. Životom. Svaka slika, svaka mjesečeva zraka odnosi godine i vraća ih obnovljene, bogatije. Neki će zlurado, drugi potpuno ravnodušno, nalijepiti etiketu sa brojem godina. Reći će - doživjela je tek četrdeset sedam. Ali, baš kao i sve drugo u ovom dijelu svemira, vrijeme nije puki matematički zbir. Nečiji život stane u šalicu čaja, a druge ne mogu obuzdati desetine knjiga. Na planetu Rivera se život zbraja i oduzima svake noći. Dok stojim, prazan i pun istovremeno, pred izvorom i ušćem u jednoj točki, plačem i smijem se, krvarim i oživljavam po stotinu puta. I ne prestajem se čuditi. Šteta što vi ove noći mirno spavate, ne sluteći što ste sve propustili, prespavali... Ali, još nije kasno da se probudite. Da ulovite sljedeći šatl u pravcu mjesečine. Da ste budni, da ne spavate, i vi biste bili kao Frida. wall.blog.hr |
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| u know, | |
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| 20 Mar 2007 20:30 | Idi na vrh |
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"Nije mi zhao shto kradu moje ideje, zhao mi je shto nemaju svoje." tesla don't ask. i bite 2day |
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| 10 | |
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| 14 Mar 2007 20:25 | Idi na vrh |
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"Gologrud i bos on odlazi na pijacu; uprljan blatom i pepelom - kako je samo shirok njegov osmeh! Nema potrebe za chudesnim moccima bogova, jer on dodirne, i gle! - mrtvo drvecce u punom je cvatu!" (Kakuan Shien, 12.v.n.e.) |
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| some strange love | |
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| 12 Mar 2007 03:44 | Idi na vrh |
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klik! http://eu.levi.com/ Strange Love by Little Annie Bandez and Antony Hegarty "Once I had a strange love, a mad sort of insane love, a love so fast and fierce I thought I'd die. Yes, once I had a strange love, a pure but very pained love, a love that burned like fire through a field. Oh, once I had a strange love, a childlike but derranged love, a love that if were bottled, it would kill. See, once I had a strange love, a secret and untamed love, a love that took no prisoners at all. And once I had a strange love a psychic unexplained love, a love that challenged scientific facts. And then there was that strange love, that very badly trained love, a love that needed discipline and facts. And once I had a strange love, a publicly acclaimed love, the kind of love that's seen in magazines. And once I had a strange love, a beautiful but vain love, a love I think that's better left in dreams. And once I had a strange love, A morally inflamed love, We'd go on holy battles in the night. And then there was that strange love, that vulgar and profane love, the kind of love that we don't talk about. Yes, once I had a strange love, a lying infidel love, who wove in stories like Sherazade. And once I had a strange love, a flaky white kinky love, we ran so fast we almost spilled our guts. You see, I've had some strange love, some good, some bad, some plain love, some so-so love, so what?!? and c'est la vie... But just let me proclaim, love that, out of all the strange love, you're the strangest love I've ever known..." |
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| ...to the Palace of Winds... | |
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| 10 Mar 2007 23:34 | Idi na vrh |
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jedno putovanje... ..1.. ..2.. http://www.gabrielyared.com/ ..3.. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/English_Patient ..4.. http://www.culture.privateweb.at/bernstein/laszlo.htm ..5.. i jedno Putovanje... (ie. D. Pajin's Home Page) * Denys: You've ruined it for me, you know. Karen Blixen: Ruined what? Denys: Being alone. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Out_of_Africa_%28film%29 Karen Blixen: He even took the gramophone on safari. Three rifles, supplies for a month, and Mozart. Kit Moresby: Tunner, we're not tourists. We're travelers. Tunner: Oh. What's the difference? Port Moresby: A tourist is someone who thinks about going home the moment they arrive, Tunner. Kit Moresby: Whereas a traveler might not come back at all. Tunner: You mean I'm a tourist. Kit Moresby: Yes, Tunner. And I'm half and half. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Sheltering_Sky Almásy: I once traveled with a guide who was taking me to Faya. He didn't speak for nine hours. At the end of it he pointed to the horizon and said, "Faya!" That was a good day. Almásy: What do you hate most? Katharine Clifton: A lie. What do you hate most? Almásy: Ownership. Being owned. When you leave here, you should forget me. Almásy: When were you most happy? Katharine Clifton: Now. Almásy: When were you least happy? Katharine Clifton: Now. Almásy: You're wearing the thimble. Katharine Clifton: Of course, you idiot. I always wear it; I've always worn it; I've always loved you. Hana: I'm not in love with him. I'm in love with ghosts... And so is he, he's in love with ghosts. Seth: What's that like? What does it taste like? Describe it like Hemingway. Maggie Rice: Well, it tastes like a pear. You don't know what a pear tastes like? Seth: I don't know what a pear tastes like to you. Maggie Rice: Sweet, juicy, soft on your tongue, grainy like a sugary sand that dissolves in your mouth. How's that? Seth: It's perfect. "One cup of it took the place of the evening papers, of all the old evenings in cafés, of all chestnut trees that would be in bloom now in this month, of the great slow horses of the outer boulevards, of book shops, of kiosques, and of galleries, of the Parc Montsouris, of the Stade Buffalo, and of the Butte Chaumont, of the Guaranty Trust Company and the Ile de la Cité, of Foyot's old hotel, and of being able to read and relax in the evening; of all things he had enjoyed and forgotten and that came back to him when he tasted that opaque, bitter, tongue-numbing, brain-warming, stomach-warming, idea-changing liquid alchemy." "Sometimes there is so much beauty in the world, I feel like I can't take it." http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Beauty_%28film%29 "As I came up the mountain, out of the misty valley into the sun. The fire on the cattle range, the potatoes in the ashes, the boathouse floating in the lake. The Southern Cross. The Far East. The Great North. The Wild West. The Great Bear Lake. Tristan da Cunha. The Mississippi Delta. Stromboli. The old houses of Charlottenburg. Albert Camus. The morning light. The child's eyes. The swim in the waterfall. The spots of the first drops of rain. The sun. The bread and wine. Hopping. Easter. The veins of leaves. The blowing grass. The color of stones. The pebbles on the stream's bed. The white tablecloth outdoors. The dream of the house in the house. The dear one asleep in the next room. The peaceful Sundays. The horizon. The light from the room in the garden. The night flight. Riding a bicycle with no hands. The beautiful stranger. My father. My mother. My wife. My child." http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wings_of_Desire |
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| i want more... | |
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| 08 Mar 2007 00:18 | Idi na vrh |
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"...more oneness, less categories open hearts, no strategies decisions based upon faith and not fear people who live right now and right here..." "Hey, friend, your misery bewilders me How come you're never satisfied or gratified Four walls n' a roof, electricity Stable mind, wife and child Hot and cold water to run anytime But still, you whine I want more A bum could rummage through ya bin And live like a king On just one crumb o'ya cake N'ya say ya life needs fulfillin' Some would give anything to live like you Shame your mind, don't shine Like your possessions do Whining, complaining all the time Don't see no rain on you What side your bread is buttered on If only you knew What d'ya mean I want more Yep I was told as a child I want more never gets Learned to count my blessings Long before I saw an abacus So what ya family don't speak At least they're alive Show me a man without guilt Or a soul that ain't lied You don't know what ya got Open your eyes, look around Really, hear me, you Ain't got no reason to be down What d'ya mean I want more Friend, what is it that you seek What is it that you try to find Someday I hope you realized It shined in you all the time Hills to climb, sights to see, seas to cross Friends to make, hands to shake, the world is yours Foods to taste, sounds to hear, love to feel Seeds to sew, things to know, fish to reel Space to quiz, stones to lift, life's a gift What d'ya mean I want more Yep What d'ya mean I want more..." (Faithless) |
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| the night belongs to... | |
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| 04 Mar 2007 04:36 | Idi na vrh |
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* http://www.jackvettriano.com/ "Night Geometry" http://www.jackvettriano.com/pages/single/5337.html http://www.jackvettriano.com/pages/single/5680.html * "Take me now, baby, here as I am Pull me close, try and understand Desire is hunger is the fire I breathe Love is a banquet on which we feed Come on now, try and understand The way I feel when I'm in your hands Take my hand come undercover They can't hurt you now, Can't hurt you now, can't hurt you now Because the night belongs to lovers Because the night belongs to lust Because the night belongs to lovers Because the night belongs to us Have I doubt when I'm alone Love is a ring on the telephone Love is an angel disguised as lust Here in our bed until the morning comes Come on now, try and understand The way I feel under your command Take my hand as the sun descends They can't touch you now, Can't touch you now, can't touch you now Because the night belongs to lovers Because the night belongs to lust Because the night belongs to lovers Because the night belongs to us With love we sleep, with doubt the vicious circle turn and burns Without you I cannot live, forgive, the yearning burning I believe it's time, too real to feel So touch me now, touch me now, touch me now ... Because the night belongs to lovers Because the night belongs to lust Because the night belongs to lovers Because the night belongs to us Because tonight there are two lovers If we believe in the night we trust Because tonight there are two lovers Because tonight belongs to love Because the night belongs to lovers Because the night belongs to lust If we believe in the night we trust ..." (Patti Smith) |
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