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Lebowski’s Dream

 

Nothing special
Read a poem
A summer song
It isn’t long
Even without words
It’s just a song

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Quest’ opera è distribuita con licenza Creative Commons Attribuzione – Non commerciale – Non opere derivate 3.0 Italia

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Long long I lay in the sands

Sounds of trains in the surf
in subways of the sea
And an even greater undersound
of a vast confusion in the universe
a rumbling and a roaring
as of some enormous creature turning
under sea and earth
a billion sotto voices murmuring
a vast muttering
a swelling stuttering
in ocean’s speakers
world’s voice-box heard with ear to sand
a shocked echoing
a shocking shouting
of all life’s voices lost in night
And the tape of it
someow running backwards now
through the Moog Synthesizer of time
Chaos unscrambled
back to the first
harmonies
And the first light

(Lawrence Ferlinghetti)

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Quest’ opera è distribuita con licenza Creative Commons Attribuzione – Non commerciale – Non opere derivate 3.0 Italia

 

“…ci si chiede se la vera passione di Leonia sia davvero come dicono il godere delle cose nuove e diverse, o non piuttosto l’espellere, l’allontanare da sé, il mondarsi d’una ricorrente impurità. Certo è che gli spazzaturai sono accolti come angeli…”

“So you begin to wonder if Leonia’s true passion is really , as they say, the enjoyment of new things, and not, instead, the joy of expelling, discarding, cleansing itself of a recurrent impurity. The fact is that street cleaners are welcomed like angels.” (Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities)

A sailor’s wife had chestnuts in her lap,
And munch’d, and munch’d, and munch’d:–
‘Give me,’ quoth I:
‘Aroint thee, witch!’ the rump-fed ronyon cries.
Her husband’s to Aleppo gone, master o’ the Tiger:
But in a sieve I’ll thither sail,
And, like a rat without a tail,
I’ll do, I’ll do, and I’ll do.
(Shakespeare, Macbeth)

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Quest’ opera è distribuita con licenza Creative Commons Attribuzione – Non commerciale – Non opere derivate 3.0 Italia

 

A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place
your sight can knock on, echoing; but here
within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze
will be absorbed and utterly disappear:

just as a raving madman, when nothing else
can ease him, charges into his dark night
howling, pounds on the padded wall, and feels
the rage being taken in and pacified.

She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen
into her, so that, like an audience,
she can look them over, menacing and sullen,
and curl to sleep with them. But all at once

as if awakened, she turns her face to yours;
and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny,
inside the golden amber of her eyeballs
suspended, like a prehistoric fly.

(R.M. Rilke, Black Cat)

 

Neighbor: Hmmm. A little boy went out to play. When he opened his door, he saw the world. As he passed through the doorway, he caused a reflection. Evil was born. Evil was born, and followed the boy.
Nikki: I’m sorry, what is that?
Neighbor: An old tale, and a variation. A little girl went out to play. Lost in the marketplace, as if half-born. Then, not through the marketplace – you see that, don’t you? – but through the alley behind the marketplace. This is the way to the palace. But it isn’t something you remember.
(Inland Empire)

 

 

“There are worlds out there where the sky is burning, and the sea’s asleep, and the rivers dream; people made of smoke and cities made of song. Somewhere there’s danger, somewhere there’s injustice, and somewhere else the tea’s getting cold. Come on, Ace. We’ve got work to do.”

 

Licenza Creative Commons

Quest’ opera è distribuita con licenza Creative Commons Attribuzione – Non commerciale – Non opere derivate 3.0 Italia