It's Easter and the canvas before us is draped in the kaleidoscope of spring's radiant colours and energy. The first eager bloomers have emerged from the shadows of the bygone winter, blossoming vividly with the smiling sun and the soft earth reverberates with the excitement of renewed fertility; a resonance that portends prospect and pleasantness in the wake of the impending summer. Happy Easter !
Essay on different ways of approaching the concept of culture, as described by several texts pertinent to the 2nd semester Subjectivity and Learning class at the Bachelor of arts cycle atRoskilde University (see list of references for the texts in question)
Pleasantly bemused by the witticism of the morning efflorescence before me, by the blushing bloom of the spring noon. My heart is of a tranquil disposition, lit by the radiant rays of the encroaching glare, like tinder to a match. Bold are the colours and the shadows that structure the crespuscular tinge of dawn; red, crimson, symptomatic, blushing before the dreamy eyes of the sleeping moon. To warmth is the benediction and to the waiting wonders above and beyond. To the caverns of mystique my gaze fixates, lured, charmed, quelled... stupefied.
High on the ecstasy of life, The Spring in our Steps I :
Caught up in the miasma of writing an essay on different perceptions of culture, my mind is whimsical and wavering, wondering, wandering, wishing.... wholeheartedly so. And so to the depths of old school house stray my passing thoughts, to a record that incorporates it all- funk, synth genius, soothing vocals and the subtle panache of veritable house. Somewhere deep down in some backroom club I may hear this gem played to the enjoyment of a vibrant crowd. Till then, may it resonate between my ear drums as it does now, always and forever. Bon soiree !
Dmitry from Paris has got his own re-touch of the beaut, sprinkled with an extra sparkle of beach house-esque vocals. Check it out:
It's days like today that encapsulate life in its full radiance, minimalistic and astute, spasdmodically amiss. I'm a million miles away, above the clouds, beyond the stratosphere, at the heart of the smiling sun. I wish I could stay here, evanesced and sheltered for all eternity.
Life is transitory and mercurial from where i'm stood. It's hard to take it all in at once, the laughs, the cries, the drama, the passion the disdain...from ear to ear grins to heavy heartedness. That's the beauty of it all though. Diversity.
Jaime Sabine's poem, "The Lovers"
The lovers say nothing. Love is the finest of the silences, the one that trembles most and is hardest to bear. The lovers are looking for something. The lovers are the ones who abandon, the ones who change, who forget. Their hearts tell them that they will never find. They don't find, they're looking.
The lovers wander around like crazy people because they're alone, alone, surrendering, giving themselves to each moment, crying because they don't save love. They worry about love. The lovers live for the day, it's the best they can do, it's all they know. They're going away all the time, all the time, going somewhere else. They hope, not for anything in particular, they just hope. They know that whatever it is they will not find it. Love is the perpetual deferment, always the next step, the other, the other. The lovers are the insatiable ones, the ones who must always, fortunately, be alone.
The lovers are the serpent in the story. They have snakes instead of arms. The veins in their necks swell like snakes too, suffocating them. The lovers can't sleep because if they do the worms ear them.
They open their eyes in the dark and terror falls into them.
They find scorpions under the sheet and their bed floats as though on a lake.
The lovers are crazy, only crazy with no God and no devil.
The lovers come out of their caves trembling, starving, chasing phantoms. They laugh at those who know all about it, who love forever, truly, at those who believe in love as an inexhaustible lamp.
The lovers play at picking up water, tattooing smoke, at staying where they are. They play the long sad game of love. None of them will give up. The lovers are ashamed to reach any agreement.
Empty, but empty from one rib to another, death ferments them behind the eyes, and on they go, they weep toward morning in the trains, and the roosters wake into sorrow.
Sometimes a scent of newborn earth reaches them, of women sleeping with a hand on their sex, contented, of gentle streams, and kitchens.
The lovers start singing between their lips a song that is not learned. And they go on crying, crying for beautiful life.
Los Amorosos, una poema de Jaime Sabines
Los amorosos callan.
El amor es el silencio más fino,
el más tembloroso, el más insoportable.
Los amorosos buscan,
los amorosos son los que abandonan,
son los que cambian, los que olvidan. Su corazón les dice que nunca han de encontrar,
no encuentran, buscan.
Los amorosos andan como locos
porque están solos, solos, solos,
entregándose, dándose a cada rato,
llorando porque no salvan al amor. Les preocupa el amor. Los amorosos
viven al día, no pueden hacer más, no saben.
Siempre se están yendo,
siempre, hacia alguna parte.
Esperan,
no esperan nada, pero esperan. Saben que nunca han de encontrar.
El amor es la prórroga perpetua,
siempre el paso siguiente, el otro, el otro.
Los amorosos son los insaciables,
los que siempre -¡que bueno!- han de estar solos.
Los amorosos son la hidra del cuento. Tienen serpientes en lugar de brazos.
Las venas del cuello se les hinchan
también como serpientes para asfixiarlos.
Los amorosos no pueden dormir
porque si se duermen se los comen los gusanos.
En la oscuridad abren los ojos
y les cae en ellos el espanto.
Encuentran alacranes bajo la sábana
y su cama flota como sobre un lago. Los amorosos son locos, sólo locos,
sin Dios y sin diablo.
Los amorosos salen de sus cuevas
temblorosos, hambrientos,
a cazar fantasmas.
Se ríen de las gentes que lo saben todo,
de las que aman a perpetuidad, verídicamente,
de las que creen en el amor
como una lámpara de inagotable aceite. Los amorosos juegan a coger el agua,
a tatuar el humo, a no irse.
Juegan el largo, el triste juego del amor.
Nadie ha de resignarse.
Dicen que nadie ha de resignarse.
Los amorosos se avergüenzan de toda conformación.
Vacíos, pero vacíos de una a otra costilla,
la muerte les fermenta detrás de los ojos,
y ellos caminan, lloran hasta la madrugada
en que trenes y gallos se despiden dolorosamente. Les llega a veces un olor a tierra recién nacida,
