Màxima minimalista (tal qual)

"A allò que és fet, pit"

(l'A, al xat, aquest matí)

"Much of the work was mechanical, and because I was the servant of the text and not its creator, it demanded a different kind of energy from the one I had put into writing The Silent World. Translation is a bit like shoveling coal. You scoop it up and toss it into the furnace. Each lump is a word, and each shovelful is another sentence, and if your back is strong enough and you have the stamina to keep at it for eight or ten hours at a stretch, you can keep the fire hot. With close to a million words in front of me, I was prepared to work as long and as hard as necessary, even if it meant burning down the house."

Paul Auster, The Book of Illusions

Teitur

Ahir vaig veure i sentir aquest geni al Roter Salon (el vídeo pertany al concert d'ahir). Podria ser que aquest concert em canviés la vida. Potser no a gran escala, és cert, però sí que crec que ahir vaig aprendre algunes coses importants, especialment sobre la necessitat d'escoltar menys els altres i deixar-se ser més un mateix. Us recomano que us acosteu a la música de Teitur, que n'escolteu els discos, que el vegeu en directe si en teniu l'oportunitat. No us en penedireu. El seu darrer disc, "The Singer", és una meravella.

Eel Tail

Alice Oswald

sometimes you see mudfish

those short lead lengths of eels

that hide at low tide

those roping and wagging,

preliminary, pre-world creatures, cousins of the moon,

who love blackness, aloofness,

always move under cover of the unmoon

and then as soon as you see them

gone

untranslatable hissed interruptions

unspeakable wide chapped lips

it’s the wind again

cursing the water and when it clears

you keep looking and looking for those

underlurkers, uncontrolled little eddies,

when you lever their rooves up

they lie limbless hairless

like the bends of some huge plumbing system

sucking and sucking the marshes and

sometimes its just a smirk of ripples

and then as soon as you see them

gone

untranslatable hissed interruptions

unspeakable wide chapped lips

it’s the wind again

bothering the reeds and when it clears

you keep looking and looking for those

backlashes waterwicks

you keep finding those sea-veins still

flowing, little cables of shadow, vanishing

dream-lines long roots of the penumbra

but they just drill down into gravel and

dwindle as quick as drips

and then as soon as you see them

gone

untranslatable hissed interruptions

unspeakable wide chapped lips

it’s the wind again

pushing on your ears and when it clears

sometimes you see that whip-thin

tail of a waning moon start

burrowing back into blackness

and then as soon as you see her

and then as soon as you say so

gone