Amor (2)

"We Are Nowhere, And It's Now"
(feat. Emmylou Harris)

If you hate the taste of wine
Why do you drink it until you’re blind?
And if you swear that there’s no truth and who cares
How come you say it like you’re right?
Why are you scared to dream of god
When it’s salvation that you want?
You see stars that clear have been dead for years
But the idea just lives on

In our wheels that roll around
As we move over the ground
And all day it seems we’ve been in between the past and future town

We are nowhere, and it’s now
We are nowhere, and it’s now
You took a ten-minute dream in the passengers seat
While the world it was flying by
I haven’t been gone very long
But it feels like a lifetime

I’ve been sleeping so strange at night
Side effects they don’t advertise
I’ve been sleeping so strange
With a head full of pesticide

I got no plans and too much time
I feel to restless to unwind
I’m always lost in thought
As I walk a block to my favourite neon sign
Where the waitress looks concerned
But she never says a word
Just turns the jukebox on
And we hum along
And I smile back at her

And my friend comes after work
When the features start to blur
She says these bars are filled with things that kill
And you probably should have learned

Did you forget that yellow bird?
How could you forget that yellow bird?

She took a small silver wreathe and pinned it onto me
She said this one will bring you love
I don’t know if it’s true but I keep it for good luck

Bright Eyes

(us recomano escoltar la canco, la melodia es preciosa).

Amor

Ahir, durant el meu llarg viatge de tornada, llegia el nou llibre de Michel Houllebecq (La possibilitat d'una illa) i vaig trobar-hi una cita que em va xocar bastant. No sabria dir si hi estic d'acord o no, però de totes maneres em dóna la sensacio que amaga un punt de sinceritat brutal -molt característica, per cert, de les obres de l'autor francès-. Aquí la teniu:

L’única oportunitat de sobreviure, quan s’està sincerament enamorat, és dissimilar-ho a la dona que s’estima, fingir en qualsevol circumstància una lleugera indiferència. Que trista, aquesta simple constatació! Quina acusació contra l’home! Tanmateix, no se m’havia acudit mai rebutjar aquesta llei, ni plantejar-me substraure-m’hi: l’amor et fa feble, i el més feble dels dos és oprimit, torturat i finalment mata sense mala intenció, sense sentir-hi plaer, amb una indiferència perfecta. Vet aquí el que els homes, normalment, anomenen amor.

Tristes Guerras

Tristes guerras,
si no es amor la empresa.
Tristes, tristes.

Tristes armas
si no son las palabras.
Tristes, tristes.

Tristes hombres
si no mueren de amores.
Tristes, tristes.

Miguel Hernández (Cancionero y Romancero de Ausencias)