|
yeppers
|
Sep 9, 2009 9:14 pm
2055 Views
|
So, the move is done. All seems to be going well. I have to admit that i love the house...I love the yard...I love the garden. It's so nice to be somewhere where i can be happy.
Now... I just need to figure out where i am going to set up my studio and the world will be a much happier place. 
|
|
|
4
Comments
|
|
|
OK I don't watch a lot of tv
|
Jul 16, 2009 10:15 pm
1739 Views
|
but i went to go watch something tonight and they've changed where are the channels are. Not that it's a big deal, it's just annoying.
I've been annoyed at a lot of things lately. I think it's the stress of making a move...even if it is a really good one. I just hate packing. I wish that when you move to a new house, you could just buy everything new other than the little special personal things.
3 weeks
coming up so quickly
|
|
|
0
Comments
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
A few things...
|
Aug 22, 2008 1:51 am
2065 Views
|
...have been on my mind lately...
The first is taken a picture of someone without their consent. I'm not sure what the legalities of it all are...but i know i don't like it. There are two reasons why this is bothering me. Last week whist passing out handbills for our show, a person took a picture of myself and my stage manager. I had seen the guy earlier walking around with the camera which is not uncommon at a theatre festival. But watching the guy he was taking pictures of women. Following them...just taking shots...most women didn't even notice he was doing it. I reported him to securty but i had to leave to make my show and i'm not sure if anything came of it.
This bothers me first off, because i just don't like people taking pictures of me. Especially if it's someone i don't know. What will you do with these pictures...If the guy is an artist and will be using these shots in art then he should know that he needs people's consent. I don't think that was his motive because he had a creepy giggly friend with him. My director wanted to know what my problem was. It's simple...I don't know what he will do with the pic...for all i know he has it posted on a web page somewhere.
OK...I have a pic on here...I know...but that was my choice...I put it here so i'm ready to face the consequences if any.
Which leads me to the other thing that is bugging me...which is somewhat related. I was in a store the other night and this guy walked psat and he was really staring at me. I noticed it but didn't really say anything to my friend...she noticed and brought it up to me later. This makes me second guess my brazeness of having my face on here...lol. Could it be that this man was a member here and has looked at my profile? Has he read my blog and gotten a glimpse of the inner me? Is it smart to have my face plastered over my blog? Or was he just staring at me because he thought i was hot...or ugly for that matter...
I will never know the answer because i didn't stop to ask him...but it really has given me something to think about. Even if i take my face down now...is it too late? Should i care?
|
|
|
3
Comments
|
|
|
Just because
|
Aug 20, 2008 10:32 pm
1915 Views
|
Oda a la Alcachofa
Pablo Neruda
La alcachofa
de tierno corazón
se vistió de guerrero,
erecta, construyó
una pequeña cúpula,
se mantuvo
impermeable
bajo
sus escamas,
a su lado
los vegetales locos
se encresparon,
se hicieron
zarcillos, espadañas,
bulbos conmovedores,
en el subsuelo
durmió la zanahoria
de bigotes rojos,
la viña
resecó los sarmientos
por donde sube el vino,
la col
se dedicó
a probarse faldas,
el orégano
a perfumar el mundo,
y la dulce
alcachofa
allí en el huerto,
vestida de guerrero,
bruñida
como una granada,
orgullosa,
y un día
una con otra
en grandes cestos
de mimbre, caminó
por el mercado
a realizar su sueño:
la milicia.
En hileras
nunca fue tan marcial
como en la feria,
los hombres
entre las legumbres
con sus camisas blancas
eran
mariscales
de las alcachofas,
las filas apretadas,
las voces de comando,
y la detonación
de una caja que cae,
pero
entonces
viene
María
con su cesto,
escoge
una alcachofa,
no le teme,
la examina, la observa
contra la luz como si fuera un huevo,
la compra,
la confunde
en su bolsa
con un par de zapatos,
con un repollo y una
botella
de vinagre
hasta
que entrando a la cocina
la sumerge en la olla.
Así termina
en paz
esta carrera
del vegetal armado
que se llama alcachofa,
luego
escama por escama
desvestimos
la delicia
y comemos
la pacífica pasta
de su corazón verde.
Oda a la Alcachofa
Pablo Neruda
La alcachofa
de tierno corazón
se vistió de guerrero,
erecta, construyó
una pequeña cúpula,
se mantuvo
impermeable
bajo
sus escamas,
a su lado
los vegetales locos
se encresparon,
se hicieron
zarcillos, espadañas,
bulbos conmovedores,
en el subsuelo
durmió la zanahoria
de bigotes rojos,
la viña
resecó los sarmientos
por donde sube el vino,
la col
se dedicó
a probarse faldas,
el orégano
a perfumar el mundo,
y la dulce
alcachofa
allí en el huerto,
vestida de guerrero,
bruñida
como una granada,
orgullosa,
y un día
una con otra
en grandes cestos
de mimbre, caminó
por el mercado
a realizar su sueño:
la milicia.
En hileras
nunca fue tan marcial
como en la feria,
los hombres
entre las legumbres
con sus camisas blancas
eran
mariscales
de las alcachofas,
las filas apretadas,
las voces de comando,
y la detonación
de una caja que cae,
pero
entonces
viene
María
con su cesto,
escoge
una alcachofa,
no le teme,
la examina, la observa
contra la luz como si fuera un huevo,
la compra,
la confunde
en su bolsa
con un par de zapatos,
con un repollo y una
botella
de vinagre
hasta
que entrando a la cocina
la sumerge en la olla.
Así termina
en paz
esta carrera
del vegetal armado
que se llama alcachofa,
luego
escama por escama
desvestimos
la delicia
y comemos
la pacífica pasta
de su corazón verde.
|
|
|
0
Comments
|
|
|
I am ophelia.
|
Aug 20, 2008 10:06 am
2075 Views
|
The one the river didnt keep. The woman dangling from the rope. The woman with her arteries cut open. The woman with the overdose. Snow on her lips. The woman with her head in the gas stove.
Yesterday i stopped killing myself. Im alone with my breasts, my thighs, my womb. I smash the tools of my captivity; the chair, the table, the bed. I destroy the battle field that was my home. I fling open the doors so the wind gets in and the scream of the world, I smash the window.
With my bleeding hands i tear the photos of the men i loved and who used me on the bed, on the table, on the chair, on the ground. I set fire to my prison. I throw my clothes into the fire. I wrench the clock that was my heart out of my breast. I walk into the street clothed in my blood.
Heiner Mueller
|
|
|
3
Comments
|
|
