As I lay down with my lady
The sounds of the night keep me warm
I’m living a city life – I’m living maybe
But tonight there’s no reason to be strong
Romantic poets guard the darkness
My my all at such an early age
An old man sheds a tear
He opens a little gold locket
He thought his little girl was lost in an Indian raid
Somewhere in these night lights lies the answer
And you can get diamonds by the yard
A tiffany dream – A porcelain dancer
An old man playing blues guitar
(Chorus:)
Midnight I surrender
I live beneath your ancient spell
You’ve been my lover since I can’t remember
You save my life with the stories you tell
Voy a hacer un primer análisis de una de mis encuestas del mes. Así, porque me da la gana y eso.
Stephen Hendry 50% -> 6 votos
Ronnie O’Sullivan 41,67% -> 5 votos
Mark James Williams 8,33% -> 1 voto
Steve Davis 0% -> 0 votos
John Higgins 0% -> 0 votos
¿Y qué quiere decir todo esto? Que al final ha habido algo de criterio en mis lectores/as y han acabado votando al mejor jugador de snooker de la historia. 36 títulos de ránking, incluyendo siete Campeonatos del Mundo, lo demuestran. Por no hablar de su dominio del juego durante toda la década de los ’90.
Y, como no podía ser de otra forma ya que esta entrada está para esto, aquí le tenemos en acción, en el mejor momento de toda su carrera.
Para saber más de Stephen Hendry, visita su perfil en Snooker147blog pichando aquí.
That’s the thing with the young these days, isn’t it? They watch too many happy endings. Everything has to be wrapped up, with a smile and a tear and a wave. Everyone has learned, found love, seen the error of their ways, discovered the joys of monogamy, or fatherhood, or filial duty, or life itself. In my day, people got shot at the end of films, after learning only that life is hollow, dismal, brutish, and short.
It seems to me that if you place music (and books, probably, and films, and plays, and anything that makes you feel) at the centre of your being, then you can’t afford to sort out your love life, start to think of it as a finished product. You’ve got to pick at it, keep it, alive and in turmoil, you’ve got to pick at it and unravel it until it all comes apart and you’re compelled to start all over again. Maybe we all live life at too high a pitch, those of us who absorb emotional things all day, and as a consequence we can never feel merely content: we have to be unhappy, or ecstatically, head-over-heels happy, and those states are difficult to achieve within a stable, solid relationship.
“A quien pueda interesar.
Me llamo Jaime y tengo veintiséis años. Tengo un trabajo estable, una novia con la que vivo, unos padres que me ayudan siempre que pueden y unos amigos bastante decentes. Y sin embargo me voy a suicidar. ¿Por qué? Muy fácil. Porque en mi interior siento esos deseos de llorar que todo el mundo tiene a veces. La diferencia es que yo los siento en todo momento.
A día de hoy llevo tres días sin ir a trabajar. He estado llamando diciendo que estaba malo, pero seguía saliendo a la misma hora de casa para que mi novia no sospechase (lo siento, cariño). Me he estado dedicando a andar por la calle, hasta encontrar algún sitio apartado en que poder llorar tranquilamente. Al volver a casa hacía como si nada pasara, viendo la tele con mi novia, leyendo y esas cosas. Pero es al irse ella a la cama cuando todo vuelve a aflorar y me vuelven los instintos suicidas. Mi primera idea siempre ha sido la de tirarme de[...]“.
-Jaime, ¿qué coño es esta carta? -a pesar de estar metido en el baño oigo su voz bien fuerte.
-¿De qué carta hablas? -sé perfectamente a lo que se refiere, pero prefiero que venga a decírmelo que el hablarlo a gritos.
-Me refiero a esta carta, escrita con tu letra, en la que dices que te vas a suicidar. -La oigo detrás de la puerta, y por la voz yo diría que está muy enfadada.
-Ya… Oye, ¿podemos hablar luego? Ahora mismo estoy… un poco ocupado, ya me entiendes.
No la oigo responder, pero la sombra de debajo de la puerta se aleja, así que puedo seguir a lo mío tranquilamente. Así que cojo de nuevo el rollo de papel higiénico y el boli que llevo siempre en los pantalones y sigo escribiendo.
“[...]Antes de despedirme del todo quiero decir que siento el estropicio que voy a organizar en el baño. Trataré de orientar los cortes hacia la bañera y no manchar el mármol del suelo.
Adiós.
P.D. Sí, la otra carta era sólo un señuelo para poder tener el tiempo suficiente para hacer esto tranquilamente.”
“Thoughts are the shadows of feelings, always darker, emptier, and simpler.
I don’t care if they’re fake or real, I just thank them for showing up at all.
I have black periods. Who does not? But they are not a part of me;
they are not a part of illness, but a part of my being. What am I saying?
I have the courage to have them. Four o’ clock in the morning. This sucks.”
I can’t go on
You said my head’s too heavy
I need that song
Those trusty chords could pull me through
and early on
they saw the warning signs and symptoms all day long
We sit and dream of better days
Where we’d hit the ground running on empty stories we’ve been told
And all those nights we spent together never felt this fucking cold
When we let the car run in the driveway kiss you one last time
Before we brought the horses in before the storm of ’59, of ’59
of ’59
I can’t go on, these limbs have grown too heavy
I need that song
A night on earth could pull me through
and early on
They saw the warning signs and symptoms all day long
Wonder how far from here we’ll fall
Before we hit the ground running on empty stories we’ve been told
And all those nights we spent together never felt this fucking cold
When we let the car run in the driveway kiss you one last time
Before we brought the horses in before the storm of ’59, of ’59
of ’59
But sometimes, very occasionally, songs and books and flims and pictures express who you are, perfectly. And they don’t do this in words or images, necessarily; the connection is a lot less direct and more complicated than that. When I was first beginning to write seriously, I read Anne Tyler’s Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant, and suddenly knew what I was, and I what I wanted to be, for better or for worse. It’s a process something like falling in love. You don’t necessarily choose the best person, or the wisest, or the most beautiful; there’s something else going on. There was a part of me that would rather have fallen for Updike, or Kerouac, or DeLillo —for something masculine, at least, maybe somebody a little more opaque, and certainly someone who uses more swearwords— and, though I have admired those writers, at various stages in my life, admiration is a very different thing from the kind of transference I’m talking about. I’m talking about understanding —or at least feeling like I understand— every artistic decision, every impulse, the soul of both the work and its creator. “This is me,” I wanted to say when I read Tyler’s rich, sad, lovely novel. “I’m not a character, I’m nothing like the author, I haven’t had the experiences she writes about. But even so, this is what I feel like, inside. This is what I would sound like, if ever I were to find a voice.” And I did find a voice, eventually, and it was mine, not hers; but nevertheless, so powerful was the process of identification that I still don’t feel as though I’ve expressed myself as well, as completely, as Tyler did on my behalf then.
Qué me contais por aquí