Talismã - Waly Salomão (musicalizado por Caetano Veloso)
E essa fome é uma gula voraz que me traz cativa
Atrás do genuíno grão da alegria
Que destrói o tédio e restaura o Sol
No coração do meu corpo um porta-jóia existe
Dentro dele um talismã sem par
Que anula o mesquinho, o feio e o triste
Mas que nunca resiste a quem bem o souber burilar
Sim, quem dentre todos vocês
Minha sorte quer comigo gozar?
Minha sorte quer comigo gozar?
Minha sede não é qualquer copo d'água que mata
Essa sede é uma sede que é sede do próprio mar
Essa sede é uma sede que só se desata
Essa sede é uma sede que é sede do próprio mar
Essa sede é uma sede que só se desata
Se minha língua passeia sobre a pele bruta da areia
Sonho colher a flor da maré cheia vasta
Eu mergulho e não é ilusão, não, não é ilusão
Pois da flor de coral trago no colo a marca
Quando volto triunfante com a fronte coroada de sargaço e sal
Sonho colher a flor da maré cheia vasta
Eu mergulho e não é ilusão, não, não é ilusão
Pois da flor de coral trago no colo a marca
Quando volto triunfante com a fronte coroada de sargaço e sal
Sim, quem dentre todos vocês
Minha sorte quer comigo gozar?
Sim, quem dentre todos vocês
Minha sorte quer comigo gozar?
Minha sorte quer comigo gozar?
Sim, quem dentre todos vocês
Minha sorte quer comigo gozar?
downtown L.A. - Charles Bukowski
throwing your shoe at 3 a.m. and smashing the window, then
sticking
your head through the shards of glass and laughing as the
phone rings
with authoritative threats as you curse back through the
receiver, slam
it down as the woman screeches: "WHAT THE FUCK YA
DOIN', YA ASSHOLE!'
you smirk, look at her (what's this?). you're cut somewhere,
love it, the
dripping of red onto your dirty torn undershirt, the whiskey
roaring
through your invincibility: you're young, you're big, and the
world
stinks from centuries of Humanity while
you're on course
and there's something left to drink -
it's good, it's a dramatic farce and you can handle it with
verve, style, grace and elite
mysticism.
another hotel drunk - thank god for hotels and whiskey and
ladies of the
street!
you turn to her: "you chippy hunk of shit, don't bad mouth
me! I'm
the toughest guy in town, you don't know who the hell you're
in this room
with!"
she just look, half-believing...a cigarette dangling, she's half-
insane, looking for an out; she's hard, she's scared, she's been
fooled, taken, abused, used, over-
used...
but under all that, to me she's the flower, I see her as she was
before she was ruined by the lies: theirs and
hers.
to me, she's new again as I am new: we have a chance
together.
I walk over and fill her drink: "you got class, doll, you're not
like the
others..."
she likes that and I like it too because to make a thing true all
you've
got to do is believe.
I sit across from her as she tells me about her life, I give her
refills,
light her cigarettes, I listen and the City of Angels
listens: she's had a hard row.
I get sentimental and decide not to fuck her: one more man for
her
won't help and one more woman for me won't
matter - besides, she doesn't look that
good.
actually, her life is boring and rather common but most are -
mine is too
except when lifted by
whiskey
she gets into a crying-jag, she's cute, really, and pitiful, all she
wants
is what she always wanted, only it's getting further and further
away.
then she stops crying, we just drink and smoke, it's
peaceful - I won't bother her the
night...
I have trouble trying to yank the pull-down bed from the wall,
she
comes up to help, we pull together - suddenly, it
releases - flings
itself upon us, a hard death-like mindless object, it knocks us
upon
our asses beneath it as
first in fear we scream
then begin laughing, laughing like
crazy.
she gets the bathroom first, then I use it, then we stretch out
and
sleep.
I am awakened in the early morning... she is down at my
center, has
me in her mouth and is working furiously.
"it's all right," I say, "you don't have to do
that."
she continues, finishes...
in the morning we pass the desk clerk, he has on thick-rimmed
dark glasses,
seems to sit in the shade of some tarantula dream: he was there
when we
entered, he is there now: some eternal darkness, we are almost
to the door
when he says:
"don't come back."
we walk 2 blocks up, turn left, walk one block, then one block
south, enter
Willie's at the middle of the
block, place ourselves at bar
center.
we order beer for starters, we sit there as she searches her purse
for
cigarettes, then I get up, move toward the juke box, put a coin
within, come back, sit down, she lifts her glass, "the first one's
best,"
and I lift my drink, "and the last..."
outside, the traffic runs up and down, down and
up,
going
nowhere.
Freedom and Truth - Margaret Fuller
To a Friend.
The shrine is vowed to freedom, but, my friend,
Freedom is but a means to gain an end.
Freedom should build the temple, but the shrine
Be consecrate to thought still more divine.
The human bliss which angel hopes foresaw
Is liberty to comprehend the law.
Give, then, thy book a larger scope and frame,
Comprising means and end in Truth’s great name.
engolosinada
Algo que veía tan instrumental
que deja ya de ser parte de mí...
Perdió cierta gracia necesaria.
Y me permito
desarmar
desmontar
descreer
para volver a crear
no enviciada
por tanto, sino casi
engolosinada ya.
Me voy, bien
después de dar
lo mejor de mí.
No todo, sino lo posible.
Y ahora sí, me voy bien
por mi bien y el de los demás
a otro lugar
por otros aires.
El guardián del hielo - José Watanabe
Y coincidimos en el terral
el heladero con su carretilla averiada
y yo
que corría tras los pájaros huidos del fuego
de la zafra.
También coincidió el sol.
En esa situación cómo negarse a un favor llano:
el heladero me pidió cuidar su efímero hielo.
Oh cuidar lo fugaz bajo el sol…
El hielo empezó a derretirse
bajo mi sombra, tan desesperada
como inútil
Diluyéndose
dibujaba seres esbeltos y primordiales
que sólo un instante tenían firmeza
de cristal de cuarzo
y enseguida eran formas puras
como de montaña o planeta
que se devasta.
No se puede amar lo que tan rápido fuga.
Ama rápido, me dijo el sol.
Y así aprendí, en su ardiente y perverso reino,
a cumplir con la vida:
Yo soy el guardián del hielo.
En Cosas del cuerpo (1999)
Song of the Builders - Mary Oliver
On a summer morning
I sat downon a hillside
to think about God -
a worthy pastime.
Near me, I saw
a single cricket;
it was moving the grains of the hillside
this way and that way.
How great was its energy,
how humble its effort.
Let us hope
it will always be like this,
each of us going on
in our inexplicable ways
building the universe.
A Supermarket In California - Allen Ginsberg
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I
walked down the streets under the trees with a
headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went
into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your
enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families
shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the
avocados, babies in the tomatoes! - and you, Garcia Lorca,
what were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,
poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing
the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans
following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary
fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy,
and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets?
The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past
blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,
what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood
watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?
Having A Coke With You - Frank O' Hara
Having A Coke With You
is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them
I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse
it seems they were all cheated of some marvellous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I’m telling you about it
is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them
I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse
it seems they were all cheated of some marvellous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I’m telling you about it
Desiderata - Max Ehrmann (1927)
Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater
and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble,
it's a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit
to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.
Camina plácido entre el ruido y la prisa,
y en la paz que se puede encontrar en el silencio.
En cuanto te sea posible y sin rendirte,
mantén buenas relaciones con todas las personas.
Enuncia tu verdad de una manera serena y clara,
y escucha a los demás,
incluso al torpe e ignorante,
también ellos tienen su propia historia.
Evita a las personas ruidosas y agresivas,
son un fastidio para el espíritu.
Si te comparas con los demás,
te volverás vano y amargado
pues siempre habrá personas más grandes y más pequeñas que tú.
Disfruta de tus éxitos, lo mismo que de tus planes.
Mantén el interés en tu propia carrera,
por humilde que sea,
ella es un verdadero tesoro en el fortuito cambiar de los tiempos.
Sé cauto en tus negocios,
pues el mundo está lleno de engaños.
Pero no dejes que esto te vuelva ciego para la virtud que existe,
hay muchas personas que se esfuerzan por alcanzar nobles ideales,
la vida está llena de heroísmo.
Sé tú mismo,
y en especial no finjas el afecto,
y no seas cínico en el amor,
pues en medio de todas las arideces y desengaños,
es perenne como la hierba.
Acata dócilmente el consejo de los años,
abandonando con donaire las cosas de la juventud.
Cultiva la firmeza del espíritu
para que te proteja de las adversidades repentinas,
mas no te agotes con pensamientos oscuros,
muchos temores nacen de la fatiga y la soledad.
Sobre una sana disciplina,
sé benigno contigo mismo.
Tú eres una criatura del universo,
no menos que los árboles y las estrellas,
tienes derecho a existir,
y sea que te resulte claro o no,
indudablemente el universo marcha como debiera.
Por eso debes estar en paz con Dios,
cualquiera que sea tu idea de Él,
y sean cualesquiera tus trabajos y aspiraciones,
conserva la paz con tu alma
en la bulliciosa confusión de la vida.
Aún con todas sus farsas, penalidades y sueños fallidos,
el mundo es todavía hermoso.
Sé alegre.
Esfuérzate por ser feliz.
Jorge Luis Borges sobre el libro.
Jorge Luis Borges
Lucrecia Martel - fragmentos de una entrevista (agosto 2025)
Creo que hay una confusión —muy extendida incluso en las escuelas de cine— entre argumento y película. Y la película es otra cosa: es una experiencia de dos horas donde se mueve el sonido, donde el plano crea profundidad y el sonido una especie de envoltorio. Eso hace que la linealidad del tiempo no funcione exactamente como en la vida. Los elementos para construir tensión en una película son infinitos. Tenemos tantas codificaciones sobre el espacio, sobre el sonido… que con sólo jugar con esas expectativas, ya podés generar una atención genuina.
La atención, a fin de cuentas, es una traición a la expectativa: uno espera algo, no sucede, se aplaza, y así se mantiene viva. Esa tensión se puede construir sin recurrir jamás a lo argumental.
Eso me gusta: cuando alguien no está domesticado por el sistema.
El deseo es desordenado. No se rige por la ley. La ley reprime, prohíbe, pero no impide que suceda. El abuso es otra cosa: es una relación de poder.
Todo ocurre tan rápido que ya no se puede sostener ni una mentira. Una noticia falsa aparece, explota, es desmentida… y nadie alcanza a entender nada. El antídoto aparece más rápido que el veneno. Estamos en una vorágine que nos sobrepasa. Tal vez haya generaciones que nazcan acostumbradas, pero nosotros estamos pasmados.
Escribimos a máquina, usamos teléfonos a disco, rebobinamos cassettes con un esfero. Y ahora todo es invisible, intangible, incomprensible. Pero lo que más me preocupa es que hemos perdido la materialidad. La tecnología dejó de ser evidente. Y eso nos volvió ingenuos. Y vulnerables.
El arte es un oráculo. No da respuestas, pero permite formular las preguntas. Y este es un momento crucial para eso. Para pensar, para hacer cine, para reflexionar. Las plataformas no están entendiendo el momento que vivimos. Están obnubiladas por el negocio. Pero algo está pasando. Y el arte puede ser esa grieta por la que entre un poco de luz.
El Tálamo Eterno - César Vallejo
Sólo al dejar de ser, Amor es fuerte!
Y la tumba será una gran pupila,
en cuyo fondo supervive y llora
la angustia del amor, como en un cáliz
de dulce eternidad y negra aurora.
Y los labios se encrespan para el beso,
como algo lleno que desborda y muere;
y, en conjunción crispante,
cada boca renuncia para la otra
una vida de vida agonizante.
Y cuando pienso así, dulce es la tumba
donde todos al fin se compenetran
en un mismo fragor;
dulce es la sombra, donde todos se unen
en una cita universal de amor.
donde todos al fin se compenetran
en un mismo fragor;
dulce es la sombra, donde todos se unen
en una cita universal de amor.
En Los heraldos negros (1919)
Los perdedores caen en la lona - Carlos Martínez Rivas
Ser el ganador es una vulgaridad.
Yo, personalmente, me sentiría abochornado
si me levantaran el brazo ante la multitud
en el cuadrilátero bajo una luz de oprobio.
¿Por qué?
¿Porque derribé a un luchador solitario
que ni siquiera combate conmigo
sino consigo
y a lo mejor era mejor que yo?
¿Por qué no le levantan el brazo también
al que está en la lona caído
si peleó lo mismo?
Gene Tunney era mejor que Dempsey.
No un bruto. Un científico. Un poeta
que escribe en su Autobiografía, ARMS FOR LIVING:
“Allí estás solo.
No hay amigos allí. Te la juegas sin nadie.
No hay partidarios excepto tus brazos”.
El perdedor estudió su técnica en anteriores
combates. La suya y la del adversario.
Las comparó en rollos de películas proyectadas
en el comedor, después de la cena, con sus hijos.
Niños de ardientes pómulos confiados en su fuerza.
Seguros de la victoria del padre.
Pero tal vez el perdedor estaba
perdidamente enamorado de su esposa
y roto por el insomnio. Como Jack Brennan.
—Sí. Como Jack Brennan.
Y durmió mal la víspera del encuentro.
No le respondieron los reflejos.
Se le agarrotaron los tendones del muslo.
Demasiado clinch.
Deficiente trabajo de piernas y juego de cintura
frente al otro: sereno, manteniendo
la guardia ortodoxa sobre la pierna izquierda
hasta el gancho mortífero,
como el gesto del embozado en el cartón de Goya.
El sudor del esfuerzo espaldar.
El tallado torso refulgente como diamante.
Un prisma proyectando un espectro de brazos
como luz en haces.
Pero nadie sabe que uno piensa cuando boxea.
Piensa en una caja de música de niños
y una esposa en trámites de divorcio.
Sentada Dios sabe dónde.
Dos ojos neutros en trámite de divorcio.
Ganar: vergüenza profesional.
Perder: destino sin concesiones.
Si todos somos, nadie es más grande.
Si la victoria de uno es la derrota de otro,
toda victoria es, en algún lugar,
un fraude.
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