Fuga em Lá Menor BWV 543 (XVIII do Organ Works?) do João Sebastião...

...com sons de órgãos coletados em várias catedrais, seguindo a interpretação inspiradora de Albert Schweitzer, (recorded and lost, but not all), antes dele se mandar para a África.

Metacamera

Into The Lens
Yes (Downes/Horn/Howe/Squire/White)

Memories, how they fade so fast
Look back, that is no escape
Tied down, now you see too late.
Lovers, they will never wait.

I am a camera

Take heart, I could never let you go
And you, always let the feeling show
Love us all, how you never broke your heart
You lose them
If you feel the feeling start.

I am a camera, camera, camera

And you, may find time will blind you
This to just remind you
All is meant to be.

Here, by the waterside
There, where the lens is wide
You and me
By the sea
Taken in tranquility.

Taken, taken so easily
To pass into glass reality
Transform, to transfer, to energy.

Taken, taken, so easily
To pass into glass reality
Transformer, transferring energy

Só um excerto, por enquanto

já que tudo seria demais para um cristão:

 Giants Under The Sun
 from The 'Ancient' (from the Tales From The Topographic Oceans II)
Yes



So the flowering creativity of life
Wove its web face to face with the shallow
And their gods sought out and conquered
Ah Kin

Do the leaves of green stay greener through the autumn
Does the colour of the sun turn crimson white
Does a shadow come between us in the winter
Is the movement really light

And I heard a million voices singing
Acting to the story that they had heard about
Does one child know the secret and can say it
Or does it all come out along without you
Along without you, along without you

Where does reason stop and killing just take over
Does a lamb cry out before we shoot it dead
Are there many more in comfort understanding
Is the movement in the head

And I heard a million voices singing
Acting to the story that they had heard about
Does one child know the secret and can say it
Or does it all come out along without you
Along without you, along without you

Pardon Me Sister

Duas coisas que as mulheres não sabem sobre o que os homens sabem sobre as mulheres:

. uma que as mulheres não são homens;

. duas que os homens não são mulheres.

Why you should shoot yourself in the foot

 .

THE “HANDY” PHOTO MEMORY TOOL

When I'm out in the field, I always think I'll remember what I'm
photographing. Then I get home and I'm clueless. Like a detective, I
have to search for some kind of hint hidden in the photo to help me
figure out where I was and why I thought it was important to take the
picture.

After 30 years of this, and the introduction of digital photography, I
came up with a system. It starts with signs and ends with my hand.
Occasionally I use my feet, too. Here’s how...

Whenever I stop to photograph a subject — say, a church in Paris, for
example — first I photograph any signs outside with the name of the
church on them, and any signs inside that might describe its history.

I know. I know. You’ve heard this tip a dozen times. But this isn’t
all I do…

When I'm done with a subject, or about to move to a new location, I
hold my hand in front of the lens and take a picture of it.

Then, when I get home and look at my photos on my computer, the shots
of my hand are like chapters in a book. When I see one, I know I've
moved to another subject. And if I take a hand shot and then find
something else to shoot in the same location, I just go back and
delete the hand so I can keep things straight.

I also, occasionally, photograph my feet.

Recently, I was thrilled to find that my favorite travel camera has
video and audio recording capabilities. I'm not too interested in
making videos in the field, but I do love the sound of my own voice
(smile).

Now, with a touch of a button, I can make a recording of any
additional notes I want to add. And to make sure I recognize that it's
a recording when I upload my pictures onto my computer, I point the
camera at my feet while I record and talk.

On my computer, thumbnails of my hand are new chapters in my
photographic adventure, and shots of my feet are recordings that
explain what's going on. (Note: That's a big improvement over the film
days when shots of my feet indicated stupidity.)

In closing, as my lovely wife points out, I'm still lost most of the
time. But now, at least when I get home, I know where I've been.

By Rich Wagner in Farmington Valley, Connecticut

Graças ao Rich, agora sei onde estive (thanks Rich, now I know where I've been).

 

Tem outras, mas a maioria é só uma confusão de mãos e pés.

Song Of The Viking I

for Lucas, back from Norway

I am a Viking of some note

Knut's my name and here I float

Out on the sea in a great big boat

and I'm the one who beats the drum in time

To stroke the oars that drive our galleons on

And while we rowed we had our song

And we had our god, and it may seem odd

But at least there was a cause

Caught a wind and we upped the sail

Lost two ships when it turned to a gale

Down went a third when she rammed on a whale

Though we despaired we could not fail

And through it all we never faltered

Late at night I lay on the decke

Wondering whye I risk my necke

Picture myselfe in a sinkinge wrecke

Ande downe I'me goinge notte knowinge whye

I just can't quite recall the reason why

It's such a drag to carry on

But there was a cause, but there was a reason

If you like I'll be your Viking

Sit you down to a Nordic meal

Give you strength that you might wield

A Viking sword and a Viking shield

And off we'll sail in mighty ships of yore

Perhaps we shouldn't let our hands get sore

We need someone to pull the oars

And to do the chores

So we need a cause, so we need a reason why

(Erik is here!)

Pure Anarchy Is True Salvation

for it's at one concern.

Você sabe

Vai a onda
Vem a nuvem
Cai a folha
Quem sopra meu nome?
Raia o dia
Tem sereno
O pai ralha
Meu bem trouxe um perfume?
O meu amigo secreto
Põe meu coração a balançar
Pai, o tempo está virando
Pai, me deixa respirar o vento
Vento

Nem um barco
Nem um peixe
Cai a tarde
Quem sabe meu nome?
Paisagem
Ninguém se mexe
Paira o sol
Meu bem terá ciúme?
Meu namorado erradio
Sai de déu em déu a me buscar
Pai, olha que o tempo vira
Pai, me deixa caminhar ao vento
Vento

Se o mar tem o coral
A estrela, o caramujo
Um galeão no lodo
Jogada num quintal
Enxuta, a concha guarda o mar
No seu estojo
Ai, meu amor para sempre
Nunca me conceda descansar
Pai, o tempo vai virar
Meu pai, deixa me carregar o vento
Vento
Vento, vento

Professo

É meu triste dever anunciar, para quem quer que chegue a este blog, um dos muitos, senão dos mais nobres, que vocês podem eventualmente visitar, que essa tira de mensagens que aparece ao lado direito da tela, me enche o saco, particularmente porque, por mais que eu tente, não consigo fazer os caras entrarem no espírito. Isso me deixa meio maluco (como se fosse possível eu partir-me pela metade!).

Pois então, eu não votei no cara, não fiz campanha nenhuma (e nem vou dizer porque não).

Os anúncios, vocês não perdem por esperar a hora em que os oráculos do Google vão me escutar e vai dar o maior encaixe (no bom sentido, é lógico).

Quanto às próximas eleições, vou me repetir. Nesse Conto-de-Fadas que é a coisa nossa, eu tô mais é com a política da Rainha Vermelha: cortem-lhes já as cabeças. Isso evitaria (infelizmente, não vai acontecer, unfortunately, it won't do) uma série de kakakas (isso mesmo, merda).

Portanto, confiem no que eu digo e não me condenem (just trust and don't blame me): A Anarquia Pura é a Única Salvação da Humanidade.

Time Table

Genesis



A carved oak table,
Tells a tale
Of times when kings and queens sipped wine from goblets gold,
And the brave would lead their ladies from out of the room
to arbours cool.

A time of valour, and legends born
A time when honour meant much more to a man than life
And the days knew only strife to tell right from wrong
Through lance and sword.

Why, why can we never be sure till we die
Or have killed for an answer,
Why, why do we suffer each race to believe
That no race has been grander
It seems because through time and space
Though names may change each face retains the mask it wore.

A dusty table
Musty smells
Tarnished silver lies discarded upon the floor
Only feeble light descends through a film of grey
That scars the panes.
Gone the carving,
And those who left their mark,
Gone the kings and queens now only the rats hold sway
And the weak must die according to nature's law
As old as they.

E como em algum outro Conto-De-Fadas,

a Rainha Vermelha repete: 'cortem-lhes as cabeças!'

O preferido da Branca de Neve

Não é o Dunga, nem o Feliz, o Zangado, o Dengoso, o Soneca ou o Mestre. É o Atchim!