Boys and their plastic toys

Say no to GUNS! the whole imaginary argument is such a hoax. give them a pink truck or a barbie doll and their imagination will trully explode :)

an article from BBC News, Toy weapons 'help boys to learn'

by Bertolt Brecht

Bad Time for Poetry

Yes, I know: only the happy man
Is liked. His voice

Is good to hear. His face is handsome.

In my poetry a rhyme

Would seem to me almost insolent.

Inside me contend

Delight at the apple tree in blossom

And horror at the house-painter’s speeches.

But only the second

Drives me to my desk.

Changing the Wheel

I sit by the roadside

The driver changes the wheel.

I do not like the place I have come from.

I do not like the place I am going to.

Why with impatience do I

Watch him changing the wheel?

from Letter to the Actor Charles Laughton

Concerning the Work on the Play

The Life of Galileo

Again and again I turned actor, demonstrating

A character’s gestures and tone of voice, and you

Turned writer. Yet neither I nor you

Stepped outside his proffesion.

I, the Survivor

I know of course: it’s simply luck

That I’ve survived so many friends. But last night in a dream

I heard those friends say of me: ‘Survival of the fittest’

And I hated myself.

I'm going to the doctor

this time...

BENWAY
by William S. Burroughs

Burroughs as Dr. Benway

The lavatory has been locked for three hours solid…. I think they are using it for an operating room….

NURSE: 'I can’t find her pulse, doctor.'

DR. BENWAY: 'Maybe she got it up her snatch in a finger stall.'

NURSE: 'Adrenalin, doctor?'

DR. BENWAY: 'The night porter shot it all up for kicks.' He looks around and picks up one of those rubber vacuum cups at the end of a stick they use to unstop toilets…. He advances on the patient…. 'Make an incision, Doctor Limpf,' he says to his appalled assistant…. 'I’m going to massage the heart.'

Dr. Limpf shrugs and begins the incision. Dr. Benway washes the suction cup by swishing it around in the toilet-bowl….

NURSE: 'Shouldn’t it be sterilized, doctor?'

DR. BENWAY: 'Very likely but there’s no time.' He sits on the suction cup like a cane seat watching his assistant make the incision…. 'You young squirts couldn’t lance a pimple without an electric vibrating scalpel with automatic drain and suture…. Soon we’ll be operating by remote control on patients we never see…. We’ll be nothing but button pushers. All the skill is going out of surgery…. All the know-how and make-do… Did I ever tell you about the time I performed an appendectomy with a rusty sardine can? And once I was caught short without instrument one and removed a uterine tumor with my teeth. That was in the Upper Effendi, and besides…'

DR. LIMPF: 'The incision is ready, doctor.'

Dr. Benway forces the cup into the incision and works it up and down. Blood spurts all over the doctors, the nurse and the wall…. The cup makes a horrible sucking sound.

NURSE: 'I think she’s gone, doctor.'

DR. BENWAY: 'Well, it’s all in the day’s work.' He walks across the room to a medicine cabinet…. 'Some fucking drug addict has cut my cocaine with Saniflush! Nurse! Send the boy out to fill this RX on the double!'


photo from here

not to survive

Dear goddess

Crash into the crystalline damp of the full moon

Offer naturalist opium

Cancel the apocalypse

And buy me a drink

How much is gonna cost to slaughter a mirror?

Earth-core makes my throat sore

I can quote any pop artist:

Death and destruction

Asthma – just a touch

Paranoia – just a touch

Valley of death – just a touch

Sensationalism – just a touch

Who wants to be a decoy?

Plenty of mucus in bronchial tubes

Fragments of glass in the sea

I am not bullet proof

I want to buy some hard liquor

Based on crimes and lies

Our writing sleeps

Abyme

Discuss our tactics

To fight the mirror

I see the moon

In the valley of extraterrestrial activities

Be feel indulge

Ongoing depression

Unsuitable anthology of madness

Falling

Ballad for Bad Boys

I expect brutality and exploitation to appear

Bad Boys

One case in point:

Todesfuge – sleep with the machinery

Plain looking caftans and flowing skirts

Going along with an old hat input

Sex kittens

In a courtroom drama

I would choose not to survive

Notes on Frida Kahlo's diary

• Frida is going to a concert: she arrives late and the sound of her sumptuous jewelry covers the orchestra and everyone is looking at her box, the concert doesn’t count anymore. An Aztec goddess, Coatlicue, a deity wrapped in her skirts of serpents, exhibiting her lacerated hands, like trophies. Or maybe Tlazolteotl, the vulture that has to devour filth to keep the universe clean. Earrings are as big as cartwheels; her rings transform her hands into claws.always hiding her tortured body, shriveled leg, broken foot, orthopedic corsets

• always hiding her tortured body, shriveled leg, broken foot, orthopedic corsets
• under the spectacular finery of the peasant Mexican woman, who kept jealously the ancient jewelry hidden away, protected from poverty, only to be shown at the great fiestas.

• Laces, ribbons, long skirts, rustling petticoats, braids, flowery peasant blouses, garnet-coloured shawls, moonlike headdresses[1] - form of humour, great disguise, theatrical, self-fascinated form of auto-eroticism, a call to imagine the suffering naked body underneath and discover its secrets[2]
• Her clothes were a manner of dressing for paradise, of preparing for death.
• “Kahlo, disguised in many clothes, a Saint Joan of the liberating culture of the Revolution”[3] : dressing and undressing, wearing her clothes were ceremonial acts, laborious, regal, ritualistic
• “I am not sick, I am broken.”
• Fooling death, fooling around with death, in her language, death was: La Mera Dientona [old buck teeth], La Tostada [The Toasted One], La Chingada [the Fucked One], La Catrina [The Belle of the Ball], La Pelona [The Hairless Bitch], La Tia de las Muchachas [The Girls’ Aunt]
• Nietzsche: Whoever has built a new heaven has found the strength for it only in his own hell[4]
• proud and defiant in her denim cloths and proletarian, urchin-like cloth caps, together with Las Cachuchas [The Caps]
• internal darkness under midday light, fantasy within realism – influences on the art of Frida
• Defenderse de los Cabrones – lifetime slogan
• Broken spinal column, collarbone, ribs, pelvis, left shoulder forever out of joint, one feet crushed, handrail crashed into her back and came out through her vagina
• Naked and bloodied, covered with gold dust
• Pain destroys language, pain is indescribable (Virginia Woolf)
• Nietzche decided to call his pain Dog
• Frida as a speaker for pain[1]
• 32 operations
• from 1944 she wore eight corsets
• in 1953 – her leg is amputated
• her wounded back “smelling like a dead dog”
• loses her fetuses in pools of blood
• forever surrounded by clots, chloroform, bandages, needles, scalpels
• personal suffering transformed into art, an art that is shared, not impersonal
• a ribbon around a bombshell – Andre Breton about her art
• she loved Laurel and Hardy, the Three Stooges, Chaplin, the Marx Brothers
• beauty as truth and knowledge: Frida’s legacy to the marginal, invisible, faceless men and women, when only photogenic and shocking images merit a vision
• I am writing to you with my eyes
• sexual and political Mexican art- censored in US, in order to preserve their fake innocence, forget their dirty history: genocide of native Indians, rape and robbery of their land, Black slavery, wars against weaker nations, territorial annexations, robber barons, capitalist exploitation, urban violence – American culture is left without appropriate, lasting beautiful images of its own violence.
• The internal oneiric change is inseparable from external, political, material, liberating change: marriage of Freud and Marx. In Frida’s subversiveness that would be the marriage between Woody Allen and Groucho Marx.
• The more I loved her, the more I wanted to hurt her. (Diego Rivera)
• I cannot, I cannot! [F on socialist realism]
• Deep down, you understand me, you know I adore you. You are not only something that is mine, you are me myself. [love letter to Alejandro Gomez Arias]
• Her voice was deep, rebellious, punctuated by caracajades [belly laughs] and leperadas [four-letter words].
• Theatrical persona – practical and linguistic jokes
• Love for carpas and cantinas, joy in singing and enjoying Mexican music
• She could sing couplets like La Malaguena with a perfect falsetto.
• Friend with carpenters, bartenders, shoemakers, anarchists, servants
• She was using a lot of diminutives, charming the words – form of defense against arrogance and oppression, a form of anesthesia.
• F vocabulary: Chaparitta – small women, chulito – male friends, doctorcito, herself: Chiquita, chicuita, Friducha
• Like Diego, she was baffled by gringo faces and could not paint them, they looked like "half-baked rolls". On her American female imitators: they look like “cabbages”.
• Mr Ford, are you jewish? [F. to renowned anti-semite Henry Ford]

---

[1] Carlos Fuentes, p.12

---

[1] Carlos Fuentes, “Introduction” in The Diary of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait, New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 1995, p. 7

[2] p.22-23

[3] Carlos Fuentes, p.11

[4] p. 24

an other Rich

Prospective Immigrants Please Note

Either you will
go through this door
or you will not go through.

If you go through
there is always the risk
of remembering your name.

Things look at you doubly
and you must look back
and let them happen.

If you do not go through
it is possible
to live worthly

to maintain your attitudes
to hold your position
to die bravely

but much will blind you,
much will evade you,
at what cost who knows?

The door itself
makes no promises.
It is only a door.


1962

An Unsaid Word

She who has power to call her man
From that enstranged intensity
Where his mind forages alone,
Yet keeps her peace and leaves him free,
And when his thoughts to her return
Stands where he left her, still his own,
Knows this the hardest thing to learn.


by Adrienne Rich

Magnetic Ladies

Diamanda's performance was one of the most powerful ones that i saw in a long time. The flows of energy were almost unbearable, a need for muscle relaxants was so intense. Breathless for two hours. and her last encore was the obsessing "Gloomy Sunday". Her diamond mask belt is one of the fetishist objects that are marking the culture of a becoming goddess.

Diamanda Galas' concert in an Austrian 13th century Gothic church follows the line of Misha Katz conducting Fantastic Symphony, Roberta Carrera acting Judith, Robert Smith playing his third encore, Silviu Purcarete's Lucky giving the speech, disappearing of an old clown in Fellini's "Clowns".

On a different note, Alexis O'Hara was a glitchy-noisy surprise, all those weird sounds were made on stage by her body and were mixed only by her hands. My crystal clear image of PoMo Feminsim. As she told me after the show: Don't worry! It's quite simple: just use two microphones.

darling i hope that my dreams never haunted you

Sunday is gloomy,
My hours are slumberless
Dearest the shadows
I live with are numberless
Little white flowers
Will never awaken you
Not where the black coaches
Sorrow has taken you
Angels have no thoughts
Of ever returning you
Wouldnt they be angry
If I thought of joining you?

Gloomy is sunday,
With shadows I spend it all
My heart and i
Have decided to end it all
Soon therell be candles
And prayers that are said I know
But let them not weep
Let them know that Im glad to go
Death is no dream
For in death Im caressin you
With the last breath of my soul
Ill be blessin you

Dreaming, I was only dreaming
I wake and I find you asleep
In the deep of my heart here
Darling I hope
That my dream never haunted you
My heart is tellin you
How much I wanted you
Gloomy sunday

Glume

Gigi Becali a fost sambata, 22 septembrie 2007, la Arad. Printre altele, s-a trezit sa declare că în cazul în care va ajunge preşedintele României va desfiinţa cluburile pentru gay, iar pe homosexuali îi va izola la marginea oraşelor, în cartiere speciale. Stirea este puternic difuzata.

„Sex-shop-urile nu au ce căuta în centrul oraşului, să le vadă toată lumea, copiii şi cei care nu vor să le vadă. Cluburile pentru gay le voi desfiinţa. Dacă aceşti oameni păcătuiesc, nu au decât să o facă la ei acasă. Îi sfătuiesc să meargă la preot dacă au probleme cu capul, pentru că eu voi desfiinţa cluburile de homosexuali şi lesbiene“

„O să le fac cartiere speciale, să stea acolo şi să ne lase pe noi în pace“

Ceea ce este interesant aici este lipsa de reactie, cel putin pana acum. probabil vor urma zilele urmatoare cateva pozitii sau cineva isi va aduce aminte de chestiunea asta prin campania electorala. Ziarele online s-au limitat la a transmite "faptele asa cum sunt". Vorbim aici nu de un personaj marginal, de un individ total lipsit de putere politca: Becali este cotat în sondajele de opinie pe locul al doilea, la categoria încrederii în politicieni, cu circa 30%, imediat dupa Băsescu. Partidul condus de Becali este situat pe locul al patrulea, după PD, PSD şi PNL, cu şanse clare de a intra în Parlament.

Vara trecuta Becali era prezent pe majoritatea posturilor TV in emisiuni sportive, talk-showuri politice, lifestyle etc. popularitatea sa este remarcabila. Faptul ca este considerat in multe cazuri un bufon inofensiv si simpatic, greu de crezut si pe care nu poti sa te superi, nu poate scuza luarile sale de pozitie deosebit de violente. Numarul 1 in sondaje recidiva acum cateva saptamani cu remarcile sale discriminatorii: de data asta nu era vorba de tigani, ci de armenii cei rai. Doctorul sau era un caz rar de "armean bun". Comisia impotriva discriminarii a reactionat. Oamenii lui Basescu au raspuns dezinvolt ca era doar o gluma, in stilul caracteristic al presedintelui. Si asa a ramas.

Si Becali probabil glumeste pe seama gaylor, femeilor, tiganilor etc. Treptat, stilul sau a devenit unul caracteristic, un produs mediatic foarte bine vandut si usor de reprodus. De unde si succesul sau. Usor usor, cu asemenea reprezentari, puternic sustinute de viitori alegatori, Romania ramane o gluma si inca una proasta de tot.

images of jehanne after 2000

as usual, when i have a major theme and i try to see how young people see it nowadays i search it on deviant art. "Joan of arc" returned over 1500 images. still popular, the well known character is presented in a fetishistic manner: the androgynous young woman becomes a voluptuous blond medieval princess with a big sword. I am surprised by the unity of vision and imagination on this mysterios historical character.

here are some relevant examples:


the idealized fairy story princess is a recurrent symbol:

one exception: Jehanne as a punk junky, her voices are creating the world that we live.


i must say that for me, Jehanne, at this moment, in exploring her as a possible theme for a performance, resemblance Hilary Swank in "Boys Don't Cry". Search continues.

Jehanne

Her name was written in a variety of ways. She reportedly signed her name as Jehanne

In an attempt to investigate what really happened during Jehanne's trial, the Pope ordered a second trial in 1455. The new trial included testimony from over 100 witnesses who all knew Jehanne. These proceedings were well documented and preserved. According to the witness accounts, Jehanne had well developed breasts, but no pubic hair and that she never menstruated. These are strong indicators of a chromosomal abnormality known as testicular feminization. A person suffering from testicular feminization is chromosomally male, they have one X and one Y chromosome, but outwardly appears to be female. This gender confusion is due to a mutation in the X chromosome, which causes different hormones to be produced and results in the genitalia to appear to be female. The main symptoms are well developed breasts, little to no pubic hair, as well as the absence of menstruation (due the absence of internal female organs). All of these symptoms correspond to the testimonies that were given back in 1431.

eclectic

cu siguranta aleg doar ce imi place :) si garantez asta

de exemplu, imaginea de mai sus: nu stiu cine sunt cei de acolo, dar imi aduce putin din atmosfera foarte speciala a unui poet danez (?), Ivan Malinovski. personajele lui pot fi integrate in acest tablou de familie, cum de altfel si personajele tabloului pot fi regasite in lumea creata de Malinovski. Nu am gasit mai nimic despre el online, doar cateva volume de poezie, evident in daneza. poate nu stiu sa caut. daca aflati sau stiti ceva, please write...
deocamdata ma multumesc cu ce am:

943
Biata cruciada in galop salbatic
prin tara frumoasa.
Maini roase de rani, sapand
pe un frig care ingheata.
Si milioane de fire de praf, nici o raza -
de imnuri ar fi nevoie pe-aici!

Cateva imnuri in afara de timp -
nu despre New York, ori Ierusalim, ori fluviul Gange,
nu Aleluia sau Hei sau Asa si pe dincolo,
doar niste cantece mici, de drum.

Imnuri ale soarelui, ale prafului, ritmuri de zi si de noapte,
ale celor putini ce nu s-au nascut cu infrangerea-n sange,
ale celor care n-au cunoscut niciodata legile.



Aschenbrenner
Suprafata apei, coaja pamantului, pielea: membrane ce te apara de moarte.

Un dans pe schimbatoarele ponderi specifice, o substanta devoreaza ceea ce substanta vecina ar vomita imediat, soggetto per una commedia...

Prin membrana foetala a matricei, la capitalism; prin membrana somnului, la un alt vis, de la nimic la nimic.


Film mut
Cine asculta aceste glasuri majore, emise din turnuri inalte?
O aversa trece peste tari si harti cu degetul gros intors pe dos. Sistemele se ciocnesc intre ele, precum galaxiile: film asurzitor, desi mut - noul bruiaj intarzie.
Ce stim despre astre? State news. Iar mai mult decat o singura viata de om, nu i-e dat nimanui sa calatoreasca in spatiu, nici de-am folosi toti hormonii mieilor nenascuti inca, ce pot prelungi existenta.
La fel si pe glob. In curand, cancelarii ne vor uita. Ce haos! Fara prea multa zarva, se otraveste atmosfera. Pe semenul tau il privesti cu neincredere: nu e cumva un agent de politie? Puterea e mereu printre noi. O tanara fata insangerata se sprijina de un felinar si plange, fara-indoiala (Scriu saptamanalele vreun cuvant despre fata?).
Spune DA Europei! Catapulta sau caracter? Aceasta e intrebarea in ziua de azi! S-a uitat demult orice muzica.
Ce zapaceala! Nici o clipa nu scade vartejul.
Fericirea te-ntampina surazand pe ecran; o femeie fardata; noi aplaudam. Si ministrii aduc osanale poporului; si noi aplaudam.
Da-ne curajul opiniei, am obosit!
Cine pune curse de soareci, e -economic vorbind- mai tare decat cine-i sarac si n-are cu ce sa le cumpere.
Gandul la tramvaie nu m-a lasat sa dorm toata noaptea; birourile ar trebui sa le repopuleze.
1. Tortura trebuie sa fie indeplinita corect.
2. Si executata de un functionar superior, sau de orice alta persoana cu simtul raspunderii.
3. Noi aplaudam.

how do you want me to live with it? alone in the closet

closet-ul e un concept care se potriveste ca o manusa lumii in care traiesc. fiecare usa deschisa, fiecare closet daramat inseamna intrarea intr-un closet si mai mare. si aceste treceri nu sunt niciodata usoare. imprevizibil ramane doar noul closet, cu regulile lui.

Am gasit un raspuns la mesajele de sub capac, pe care insa nu le inteleg. o pot numi

Plimbare in 2007

Ratacesc prin case mohorate
lipsite de o lumina fireasca:
adaposturi ale celor demult decedati.
Umezeala pe pereti e o licarire
de lacrimi pe obraz, nezvantate.

Ratacesc prin bucatarii mucegaite,
prin dormitoare-n amurg
in care ingalbenesc fotografiile barbatilor disparuti,
ale fiilor impuscati.

Prin holuri, coridoare, pivnite,
sub multe lampi obosite
ratacesc prin multe incaperi.

Si nici o taina nu-i ascunsa
indaratul vreunei usi,
indaratul fiecarei usi
dau de teama si speranta,
curaj si slabiciune
si indaratul usilor nu mai dau de nimic -
in afara de mine.


autorul este Gunter Kunert, traducerea este a lui Petre Stoica.

rOstagia 2

loving memories

In special conditions of Romanian socialism, Ostalgia for the eighties can reverberate strong feelings related to some weird pictures and imagination triggers. Samples:

despre Peter Hille

revin la poetul german Peter Hille, intrat in legenda. a lucrat foarte putin si cand a facut-o, avea meserii jalnice: grefier si corector. la berlin era o curiozitate locala si la un moment dat apare ca fiind proprietarul unui cabaret de doi bani, dar cunoscut in boema berlineza. de cele mai multe ori, fara a anunta pe nimeni, Hille diparea fara urma si prietenii lui nu mai stiau nimic de el ani de zile. Cel mai frecvent, pleca alaturi de caravane de tigani prin toata Europa. La un moment dat il gasim stabilit la Londra, unde va trai o perioada in comunitatile de negri si de chinezi. Singura proprietate de care se stia era un sac de campanie plin cu manuscrise. Stilul sau fragmentat, grabit, mereu pus pe improvizatie se poate observa in poezia sa. se presupune ca cele mai importante scrieri ale sale au disparut undeva pe drum sau prin carciumi. publicat, cum era si de asteptat, postum, Hille a scris si teatru dar si o proza cu o puternica tematica anarhista. ironia razbate din fiecare rand al sau. ca o ultima nota asupra vietii sale, a fost gasit mai mult mort decat viu pe o banca in gara din Berlin. In scurt timp a murit la spital.

Memphis, Tennessee

voi continua serile de poezie de pe blog.
poate si datorita sophianei, amintiri cu mici momente de victorie pe poeme inspirate.

cert este ca in aceste shot-uri stil mtv sau youtube gasesc inspiratie si puncte de plecare pentru kestii mai mari.

urmeaza in aceasta seara minunata un poet danez, Johannes V. Jensen cu fragmente dintr-o calatorie americana. ca doi globethroateri fara o experienta vasta, in planul unui coast-to-coast, dupa lungi zile si nopti pe drum, vom astepta un greyhound

In statia Memphis

Pe jumatate treaz, dormind pe jumatate,
intr-o vijelie launtrica de vise dadaiste,
stau si scrasnesc din dinti
in statia Memphis, Tennessee.

Noaptea e prea pustie si moarta,
si ploaia curge pe pamant
cu o energie surda, cretina.
Totul e umed si nepasator.
De ce sta trenul de ore si ore?
De ce s-a oprit destinul tocmai aici?

Am fugit de ploaie, de pamantul macinat,
in Danemarca, India si Japonia,
ca sa -mi intre ploaia in oase si sa putrezesc la Memphis,
Tennessee, USA?

Ce surda e lumea, ce nemiscata!
Ce banal creatorul!
De ce sa platesc pe deasupra o taxa
acestui vulgar sanatoriu al vietii!

Aprinde-ti pipa, pe stomacul gol.
Blestema cerul si alunga-ti necazul!
Si du-te si stai la Memphis!
Viata ta, in definitiv, nu-i altceva
decat o ploaie cazand pe pamant.
Viata ta, in definitiv, nu e mai mult
decat un ropot de ploaie gretoasa, si soarta
ti-a fost dat sa intarzii
intr-o mizera sala de asteptare sau alta.
Ramai deci la Memphis, Tennessee!

Opreste-te, om neimpacat!
Vei purta vesnic pica pamantului pentru recunostinta ce ti-ar datora-o?
Ce-ai vrea sa faci cu inima ta cea plina de dragoste?
Opreste-te odata, ramai la Memphis;
anunta-te printre nou-venitii in targ, ca orice alt cetatean;
du-te si asigura-te asa cum se obisnuieste;
plateste-ti prima de vulgaritate,
sa se stie ca esti sanatos
si sa nu fii zvarlit afara din club cu pistolul.
Curteaza dudui cu roze in piept si inele de aur in deget,
incepe-ti cariera cu un gater mic ca si altii.
Ia-ti zilnic galosii in picioare...
Uita-te-n jur, fumeaza pipa-ntelept
in Memphisul fara sfinx...

100% Bertolt Brecht

Despre sarmanul B.B.


1
Eu, Bertolt Brecht, vin din padurile negre.
Maica-mea m-a adus in spatii citadine
in timp ce ma purta in ea. Si raceala padurilor
pana la moarte o sa ramana in mine.


2
In orasul de asfalt ma simt la mine acasa.
Cu slujba de inmormantare asigurat,
cu ziare, cu tutun si cu alcool,
neincrezator si lenes si, pana la urma, impacat.


3
Spre seara, imi adun cativa domni aproapte
si ne spunem "gentleman" pe rand.
Pe masa mea isi pun picioarele
si spun: o sa fie bine. Iar eu ma intreb: cand?

4
Spre ziua, in zorii cenusii, urineaza brazii
si ganganiile lor - pasarile - incep sa tipe.
La ora aceea imi beau paharul in oras, arunc mucul de tigara
si adorm nelinistit peste cateva clipe.

5
Cine o sa ramana viu in aceste orase? Vantul!
Cel care le strabate si le goleste in sfarsit.
Stim ca suntem provizorii
iar ceea ce urmeaza dupa noi nici nu merita amintit.

6
Sper ca la viitoarele cutremure, tigara mea Virginia
sa n-o las sa se stinga, de-amaraciune grea,
eu, Bertold Brecht, naufragiat in orase,
din padurile negre, adus de maica-mea.



Intrebarile unui muncitor care citeste

Cine a cladit Teba cu cele sapte porti?
In carti, e trecut numele regilor.
Oare regii au carat bucatile de stanca?
Si Babilonul, de mai multe ori daramat,
cine l-a recladit de atatea ori? In ce case
locuiau ziditorii Limei, cea stralucitoare ca aurul?
Unde s-au dus zidarii, in seara in care zidul chinezesc a fost terminat?
Marea Roma
e plina de arcuri de triumf. Cine le-a ridicat? Asupra cui
au triumfat Cezarii? Locuitorii multcantatului Bizant
au locuit oare numai in palate? Chiar in legendara
Atlantida, in timp ce marea-i inghitea, scufundatii urlau
in noapte, dupa sclavii lor.

Tanarul Alexandru cuceri Indiile.
El singur?
Cezar ii batea pe gali.
N-a avut cu el macar un bucatar?
Filip al Spaniei planse, cand flota lui
se scufunda. Nimeni n-a mai plans in afara de el?
Frederic al II-lea a invins in razboiul de sapte ani.
Cine a mai invins in afara de el?
Pe fiecare pagina, o victorie.
Cine-a gatit praznicul victoriei?
La fiecare zece ani, un mare om.
Cine i-a platit intretinerea?

Atatea relatari;
Atatea intrebari.

cu Bush, Patapievici, Pulcinella, Rednic si Chopin

Bush e hotarat sa distruga Iranul intr-un blitzkrieg. holocaustul nuclear trebuie oprit cu orice pret. Rednic a fost dat afara de jucatorii de la Dinamo pentru restantele din premiul luat de la Steaua pentru castigarea unui meci. Patapievici ia atitudine virulenta in Evenimentul Zilei in legatura cu ongistii, aparatorii drepturilor omului si sustinatorii minoritatilor de orice fel, numindu-i fara drept de apel bolnavi de leninism. Scriu de zor despre grosolania si obsesiile lui Pulcinella pentru sex si mancare.
Aparent fara nici o legatura, intr-o lume mult mai salbatica, Gottfried Benn publica Chopin:

Nu prea vorbaret.
Opiniile nu erau partea lui tare,
opiniile sunt vrute si nevrute.
Cand Delacroix isi dezvolta teoriile,
el deveni nelinistit, intrucat, in ce-l priveste,
nu-si putea motiva Nocturnele.

Amant debil;
o umbra la Nohant,
unde copiii lui George Sand
nu primeau de la el nici o educatie.

Bolnav de piept in toate fazele
cu hemoptizii si cicatrizari
care dureaza;
moarte lenta
in contrast cu una prin salve de pusca.
I se impinse pianul (Erard) langa usa
si Delphine Potocka
ii canta in ultimul ceas
un lied al violetei.

In Anglia a plecat cu trei piane:
Pleyel, Erard, Broadwood.
Canta pentru douazeci de guinee pe seara,
un sfert de ora,
la Rotschilzi, Wellingtoni, in Stafford House,
si in fata a nenumarate bretele,
intunecat de oboseala si de apropierea mortii
se intoarce acasa
pe Square d'Orleans.

Apoi isi arde schitele
si manuscrisele
sa nu ramana resturi, fragmente, notite,
aceste tradatoare privelisti -
la sfarsit spuse:
"Incercarile mele sunt desavarsite
in masura in care am reusit sa le realizez".

Fiecare deget sa cante
cu o putere conforma constructiei lui,
al patrulea e cel mai slab
(e numai siamezul mijlociului).
Cand a inceput, ele stateau asezate
pe mi, fa, diez, sol diez, si, do.

Cine a auzit candva
anumite preludii ale lui,
fie in case de tara,
fie in tinuturi de munte,
sau prin usile deschise ale teraselor,
sau, de pilda, dintr-un sanatoriu,
le va putea uita cu greu.

N-a compus niciodata o opera,
si nici o simfonie,
numai aceste tragice progresii,
dintr-o convingere artistica -
si cu o mana atat de mica.

speranta dupa 21

intr-o antologie de poezie germana am gasit un autor fenomenal. drept exemplu, aduc doua mostre. numele lui este Peter Hille.

Speranta


Am mers
sa-mi cumpar
o cutioara cu praline
Speranta.
Ghinion: si pretul lor
a urcat.
Pacat.
Nu-mi mai pot permite
acum
luxul sa sper.


Dupa 21 de ani


Peste intinderile cu ruini
crescu iarba.
Noaptea, vantul
colinda prin iarba.
Dimineata
un om
trece drept
prin iarba inalta.

traducere de Dan Constantinescu

beckett land

In ultimul timp, tot urmarind stirile la TV si mergand pe strada am tot mai des feelingul ca Romania este un adevarat Beckett Land in care nu trebuie sa platesti biletul de intrare. Vagabonzii batrani, orbi, schiopi, senili, mirosind a cadavre, maniaci, plini de cele mai diverse fobii, sunt prezenti in toate orasele, prin toate mijloacele de transport, in toate pietele. Azi citesc pe canalele de stiri un caz fenomenal si aparent banal: o octogenara a ajuns in coma alcoolica la Spitalul Clinic de Urgenţă dintr-un mare oras. Femeia a baut spirt cu un singur scop: sinuciderea. La trezire le-a spus doctorilor că a vrut să moară din cauza singurătăţii. Tradati intr-un final de viata, de cei apropiati, de propriul corp, aceste persoane singuratice transmit cu multă energie o teatralitate vie, o teatralitate excesiva (care pare a nu avea o conotatie realistă).

Passions of Vsevold Meyerhold

Reading again about Meyerhold, I found some disturbing elements that are making him such an impressive character in the history of theatre. From comisar of the people and a major influence on Soviet art to decay was such a small step.

Because Meyerhold was openly against socialist realism and in the 1930s, when Stalin rejected any form of avantgarde art or experimentation, his works became antagonistic and alien to the Soviet people. His theatre was closed down in 1938 and in 1939 Meyerhold was arrested and imprisoned.




In Simon Sebag Montefiore's Stalin: The court of the Red Tsar from 2004 there are some terrible details related to Meyerhold's imprisonment. The file on Meyerhold contains his letter from prison to Molotov: "The investigators began to use force on me, a sick 65-year-old man. I was made to lie face down and beaten on the soles of my feet and my spine with a rubber strap... For the next few days, when those parts of my legs were covered with extensive internal haemorrhaging, they again beat the red-blue-and-yellow bruises with the strap and the pain was so intense that it felt as if boiling water was being poured on these sensitive areas. I howled and wept from the pain. "When I lay down on the cot and fell asleep, after 18 hours of interrogation, in order to go back in an hour's time for more, I was woken up by my own groaning and because I was jerking about like a patient in the last stages of typhoid fever." The interrogator, he added, urinated in his mouth. Meyerhold wrote this letter on January 13 1940 having confessed to whatever it was they wanted him to confess to (spying for the British and the Japanese, among other charges). He was sentenced to death by firing squad on February 1, 1940. The date of his death is unclear; some sources say he was killed on February 2, 1940.

Scriitoarea Taslima Nasreen risca trei ani de Inchisoare pentru ofensa adusa islamului

"Femeile sunt asuprite in est, in vest, in sud, in nord. Femeile sunt asuprite acasa si in afara casei. Indiferent daca este sau nu credincioasa, o femeie este asuprita. Frumoasa sau urata, este asuprita. Infirma sau nu, bogata sau saraca, educata sau needucata, este asuprita. Acoperita sau goala, este asuprita. Tampita sau nu, lasa sau curajoasa, este intotdeauna asuprita", scrie Taslima Nasreen.

"Nu cred in Dumnezeu. Propovaduitorii segregheaza femeile de rasa umana, si eu sunt separata, nici mie nu mi se respecta drepturile".

Mai multe despre Taslima Nasreen aici.

Instrumente pe cale de disparitie

Titera, caraba cu talv, fifa, fisconiu’ da pipalac, piscalaul sunt instrumente uitate care au fost reconditionate, adunate de un muzicolog din Timisoara, Ovidiu Papana, in singura colectie de instrumente muzicale traditionale din Romania. Aici se afla tot articolul din Romania libera.

Rostalgia

ROstalgia does not represent a desire to return to the the austere times of the eighties. it is a return to my childhood. It is nostalgia for a time when people had dreams and were hopeful. When people dreamt about crossing frontiers to wonderland. The Danube represented a border to freedom and land of neverending hope. from my little town in the south of romania, i could see serbian villages as a different world that i couldn't quite understand, a world of MTV, cartoons, comercials to tasty products and cartoons, lots of cartoons. Now, that we live in this world, the changes we dreamt of have turned into materiality but the taste of freedom remains eighties'ish somehow....

Science and Garbage (2003) by Pierre Herbert and Bob Ostertag

2003 - Pierre Herbert and Bob Ostertag perform together in Science and Garbage, a highly political Brechtian performance, where music and images are made out of coca cola cans and toy trucks, plastic toys like monkeys, frogs, penguins, soldiers, trains, tanks and planes, rubber ducks, apples, M&Ms, chips, lettuce and German newspapers. Sounds are created mainly by eating and drinking very close to the microphone and then looping and mixing them. Disturbing incredibly ironic, images of Bush and Iraqi victims are hunting the viewer, all in connection to trivial goods of a consumerist society.

Dilated body

here is my thesis on dilated body and Eugenio Barba. enjoy

Saraband (2003) by Ingmar Bergman

poate in asteptarea unei saptamani plina de filme pe care imi doream sa le vad si revad, dar pentru care nu am timp acum, revizitez aceste pseudo-cronici de vara trecuta si vreau sa gust putin din ce apare pe aici. sa ne intoarcem la un final. Saraband.

vintage Bergman: 10 capitole foarte bine portionate, un ritm controlat la sange, cadrele specifice, actorii bine cunoscuti, cursivitatea bine cunoscuta, static pana cand devine fascinant, 4 personaje care te tin in scaun pe toata durata filmului facut pentru TV.

Bergman isi incheie conturile si isi inchide lanterna magica. un film realizat la 86 de ani, dupa ce spusese in 1982 ca Fanny and Alexander este ultimul sau film. Saraband ramane filmul sa de sfarsit, un film de o sinceritate criminala si de o forta uluitoare.

un film despre nefericire sau despre dorinta de nefericire; mereu ne dorim ceva mai sus decat nevoia noastra primara de a fi multumiti, granita propriei fericiri devine granita unei patologii sociale.

cum ar spune un critic de film: Bergman - game over.

Querelle (1982) by Fassbinder

"But what's normal?"—Nono














Jean Genet este revizitat şi începe să prinda forta mai ales prin lentilele fascinante ale lui Fassbinder. Cel mai gay film din istorie. Şi cel mai lucrat, acelaşi univers feeric, acelaşi registru nonrealist, dar atât de aproape de noi. Viaţa de pe peliculă omoară viaţa. Filmul lui Fassbinder e mai viu decât orice alt documentar despre această lume ascunsă şi impenetrabilă a homosexualităţii din porturi, cu toate fetişurile şi clişeele sale.

Querelle, povestea unui marinar (Bruce Davis) ancorat in Brest, este un eseu suprarealist asupra descoperirii sexualitatii. Bazat pe romanul lui Genet, Querelle de Brest, filmul adreseaza diverse forme de sexualitate si iubire.

Brest este orasul in care nimic nu este ceea ce pare, Querelle fiind un film greu de privit si greu de inteles. Citindu-l pe Genet, imaginile se limpezesc si povestea devine familiara. Genet era un hot si un peste, gay iesit din closet si artist pe deasupra. Scrierile sale mizau pe confruntarea autoritatii morale prin atacarea sensibilitatilor audientei. Fassbinder imbratiseaza total punctul de vedere al lui Genet, scotand la suprafata un artist care s-a autodepasit. Acesta este ultimul Fassbinder, cel de dinaintea sinuciderii, bazat si el pe realitatile dureroase, pe lupta personajului de a depasi presiunea saraciei si a controlului social, ceea ce dezumanizaza iremediabil. Brechtian calculat, Fassbinder foloseste ingredientele magice foarte atent, exagereaza cu stil si isi gandeste in amanunt distantarea jocului actorilor, scopul ultim fiind critica politica prin intermediul produsului artistic.

Un atac concertat asupra conventiilor referitoare la identitatea sexuala asa cum apar in film. Fassbinder pare a-si repeta propria sa sinucidere in Querelle.

Supremul narcisist, Querelle isi foloseste propria sexualitate in manipularea celorlalti, seducand barbati si femei, scopul sau fiind unul extrem de dificil: propria anihilare. daca o crima e usor de realizat, asemeni unui sarut, sinuciderea este gestul maxim pe care Querelle il urmareste.

Il Vangelo secondo Matteo (1964)

regia: Pier Paolo Pasolini

Evanghelia dupa Matei, vazuta cinematic de un regizor militant ateu, gay si marxist pe deasupra. Totul ca parte intr-un dialog cu tinerii necredinciosi, propus de Papa. Pasolini nu incerca o ridicare in slavi, o glorificare a personajelor sale, e mai mult o incercare de a reda povestea neo-realist, pornind insa de la Evanghelie, ceea ce da si titlul, fara comentarii extratextuale, fara sentimentalizari si romantari. Faptul ca nu este povestea unui personaj, ci punerea pe film a unei scrieri, trebuie tinut minte de la bun inceput.

Mel Gibson a filmat The Passions in aceeasi locatie, un orasel italian foarte sarac. Desigur, cu o importanta diferenta de perspectiva!

Un film creat din imagini, aproape total lipsit de dialog, doar afirmatii rupte total de scenele anterioare, cu actori neprofesionisti (Isus e jucat de un student spaniol la economie pe care Pasolini il cunoaste accidental si ii ofera rolul), majoritatea personajelor sunt jucate de tarani iar Maria e jucata de propria mama a regizorului.

Pasolini descrie in mod poetic un radical nu chiar asa de oarecare, cu greu acceptat de orice societate, care trebuie sa dispara. Nu insista pe scenele dure ale povestii, pe partea transcedentala, ci pe programul politic.

Un film greu de urmarit, mie mi-a luat peste 20 de ore, multe pauze, reveniri, pauze etc. Austeritatea imaginii devine dificil de digerat in conexiune cu tematica atat de grea. Sentimentul meu final este unul neasteptat: acceptare a discursului religios, intelegere pasnica a demersului si dorinta de revedere a intregului film. As vrea sa il vad la cinema cu sonorul maxim. Din punctul asta de vedere, Pasolini face un imens serviciu nemeritat crestinismului.

Sartre i-a spus lui Pasolini dupa proiectia filmului in Notre Dame : Stalin l-a recuperat pe Ivan cel Groaznic, marxistii nu il mai pot recupera pe Isus. Aici sunt de acord: cred ca mesajul de stanga a fost recuperat pe o cale dibace de catolicism mai ales, cel putin la nivel estetic. Nu invers.

Weekend (1967) by Jean Luc Godard

un cuplu haituit de un cosmar care nu se mai termina, un film per se, film 100%, no reality whatsoever, genial, violent, scarbos, canibalistic si politic. emily bronte is literally burning!!!
apocalipsa dupa godard, ma gandeam ca filmul are 40 de ani, dar inca te mai sperie. revoltator si iritant. exact ce ai nevoie pentru o vineri dupa amiaza.

brechtianism pur, sfarsitul consumerismului, sfarsitul cinematografiei, postmodernism agresiv avant-la-lettre.

The traffic jam shows us a civilization that has gotten clogged up in its own artifacts. (Roger Ebert) si tot filmul e un traffic jam, lumea ne apare ca un cimitir de masini in flacari (personal: cum arati asta pe scena?)

the most peculiar odyssey since Gulliver's. They meet historical figures, they walk through scenes from other movies, they are casually raped, they see bodies set afire. This is a radical, bitter view of society, and Godard is at pains to dismiss any optimistic liberal solutions. (tot Roger Ebert)

culturalizarea maselor de tarani prin cantari la pian, discursuri sforaitoare in timpul mesei despre foamea din Africa, bucataria din final in care personajele sint mancate intr-o tocana care mai contine animale proaspat omorate, un univers atat te viu incat te sperie mai tare ca cel mai groaznic horror.

take a weekend!

neobeat

conditiile vietii, cacatul si basinile si pisatul si sudoarea si mucii vietii.

nu am putut da delete la nici un cuvant. Burroughs again si prietenii stiu de ce sau ce si cum. kestii de pe un blog mult mai vechi:

nu te poti lupta si mai bine nu raspunzi unui critic, indiferent cat de absurda poate fi critica. nu il lasa sa iti fluture carpa, asa cum se zice pe la corride. niciodata nu vanezi carpa, indiferent de conditii.


cuvant cuvant pur. coloane intregi, pagini intregi, nici o imagine vizuala.

daca vrei sa distrugi un individ sau o societate, e simplu. marele bill ne explica: Distruge/i visele. asta se intampla acum la o scara globala.

visam ca sa uitam.


visele au functia de a dezvata si a curata creierele de conexiunile nedorite. ceea ce ne trece prin cap in timpul visului este o curatenie neuronala generala. amintirea lor poate fi daunatoare. curatenia trebuie sa ramana locala.



produ primul sobolan care sa contina toti virusii, e mult mai productiv. in loc sa ne straduim sa tinem sobolanul in viata, mai bine sa tinem celule canceroase in viata. in loc sa tinem pacientul in viata, mai bine tinem moartea in viata. daca poate deveni Moarte, nu poate muri. in loc sa ne alaturam retardatei profesiuni medicale si sa incercam cu disperare sa tinem Moartea afara, de ce sa nu lasam Moartea sa intre?


moartea este la fel de prozaica precum ziarul zilnic pentru o minte plata sau o plosca pentru canceros. nu poate fi nimic dincolo, de vreme ce nu e nimic inainte sau pe laturi in acest loc gol si mort, fara scop sau inteles.

pentru a transcende viata trebuie sa transcenzi conditiile vietii, cacatul si basinile si pisatul si sudoarea si mucii vietii.

roaga-te doar si vei fi pe calea cea dreapta. roaga-te si crezi. crezi o minciuna evidenta si roaga-te unui excroc nerusinat.

multi vor sa-si impuna stilul facand chestia chic, chestia hip, chestia trendy, chestia balans din cur la fix, chestia tensionata... plina de scop, gratioasa care este in... chestia incordata, patrunsa....sexul este afara sexul este in....stanga dreapta.....

e nemuritor si nu e pentru voi (louise bogan)

GRABESTE-TE, TE ROG. A SOSIT TIMPUL.

[Ultimele cuvinte din western lands, ultima carte a lui bill burroughs.]

inavuteste-te. dormi pana la pranz. si fute-i pe toti.

omul ramane un produs final. nu pentru ca e apogeul perfectiunii si nu pentru ca pana si god almighty ar fi spus cu emotie in glas "nu-l puteam face mai bine" ci tocmai ca e un esec lamentabil, o fundatura biologica, un experiment nereusit.

nu s-a vazut inca niciodata ciuma fara sa apara mai intai un june zdrentaros si imputit care bea ca un caine din fantana satului si apoi se duce mai departe.
(Gunther de Brandenburg, cronicar medieval)

Alice pe romaneste

cateva cantece pe romaneste de pe vinilul de zile mari cu Alice, o piatra de incercare pentru orice copil nascut prin anii 80:

"Eu sunt o fetitza, ma cheama Alice,
Si unchiul meu Charles o carte a scris
Dar eu inca-s mica si nu stiu precis
Aievea sunt toate sau vis …"

iepurele alb:

” Ce-ntamplare-ntamplatoare
S-a-ntamplat din intamplare
C-am plecat de la plecare
sa ma plimb intr-o plimbare
Sa ma plimb intr-o plimbare
Ce-ntamplare, ce-ntamplare…

Poate ceasul sau compasul
poate pasul sau popasul
poate poate poate poate
sa raspunda cine poate?
poate poti din intamplare
sa raspunzi la inrebare…
poti?”

gradinarii:

” Gradinari mai iscusiti
Tra-la-la-la-la
Nu cautati ca n-o sa gasiti
Tra-la-la-la-la
Mesteri mai mari ca la Palat
Tra-la-la-la-la
Nicaieri nu s-au aflat
Tra-la-la-la-la
Sapa
Sapa
Toarna apa
Toarna apa
Nici o buruiana nu ne scapa
Ha Ha”

alice strikes again: quotes for Alice in Wonderland (1951)

Cheshire Cat: Oh, by the way, if you'd really like to know, he went that way.
Alice: Who did?
Cheshire Cat: The White Rabbit.
Alice: He did?
Cheshire Cat: He did what?
Alice: Went that way.
Cheshire Cat: Who did?
Alice: The White Rabbit.
Cheshire Cat: What rabbit?
Alice: But didn't you just say - I mean - Oh, dear.

---

White Rabbit: [singing] I'm late / I'm late / For a very important date. / No time to say "Hello." / Goodbye. / I'm late, I'm late, I'm late.

---

Alice: If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is because everything would be what it isn't. And contrary-wise; what it is it wouldn't be, and what it wouldn't be, it would. You see?

---

Cheshire Cat: If I were looking for a white rabbit, I'd ask the Mad Hatter.
Alice: The Mad Hatter? Oh, no no no...
Cheshire Cat: Or, you could ask the March Hare, in that direction.
Alice: Oh, thank you. I think I'll see him...
Cheshire Cat: Of course, he's mad, too.
Alice: But I don't want to go among mad people.
Cheshire Cat: Oh, you can't help that. Most everyone's mad here.
[Laughs maniacally; starts to disappear]
Cheshire Cat: You may have noticed that I'm not all there myself.

---

Doorknob: Read the directions and directly you will be directed in the right direction.

---

Alice: It would be so nice if something would make sense for a change.

---

March Hare: I have an excellent idea, LETS CHANGE THE SUBJECT.

---

Queen of Hearts: Off with their heads.

---

Queen of Hearts: Who's been painting my roses red? WHO'S BEEN PAINTING MY ROSES RED? /Who dares to taint / With vulgar paint / The royal flower bed? / For painting my roses red / Someone will lose his head.
Card Painter: Oh please, your majesty, please! It's all his fault!
Card Painter: Not me, your grace! The ace, the ace!
Queen of Hearts: You?
Card Painter: No, two!
Queen of Hearts: The two, you say?
Card Painter: Not me! The three!
Queen of Hearts: That's enough! Off with their heads!

---

Mad Hatter: Would you like a little more tea?
Alice: Well, I haven't had any yet, so I can't very well take more.
March Hare: Ah, you mean you can't very well take less.
Mad Hatter: Yes. You can always take more than nothing.

---

Dodo: Ahoy, and other nautical expressions!

---

---

Tweedle Dum: If you think we're waxworks, you ought to pay, you know.
Tweedle Dee: Contrarywise, if you think we're alive you ought to speak to us.
Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum: That's logic.

---

Dormouse: Twinkle twinkle, little bat / How I wonder where you're at? / Up above the world so high / Like a tea tray in the sky.

---

Alice: Oh, pooh. I'm not afraid of you. Why, you're nothing but a pack of cards.

---

Alice: Unbirthday? I'm sorry, but I don't quite understand.
March Hare: It's very simple. Now, thirty days has Septem -No. wait... An unbirthday, if you have a birthday, then you -
[laughs]
March Hare: She doesn't know what an unbirthday is.

---

Alice: Curiouser and curiouser.

---

Mad Hatter: Oh yes mustard! That'll do... Mustard? Don't let's be silly. Now lemon, that's different...

---

Alice: I'm sorry I interrupted your birthday party.
March Hare: Why my dear child this is not a birthday party.
Mad Hatter: Heavens no. This is an unbirthday party.

---

Mad Hatter: Clean cup, clean cup. Move down.

---

Queen of Hearts: I warn you dear child, if I lose my temper, you lose your head. Understand?

---

[after they have restrained the Dormouse]
March Hare: Ah thank goodness! Those are the things that upset me!
March Hare: See all the trouble you started?
Alice: But I didn't think...
March Hare: Ah, that's just it. If you don't think, then you shouldn't talk.

---

Alice: Better read it first, for if one drinks much from a bottle marked "Poison", it's almost certain to disagree with one sooner or later.

---

Caterpillar: Who... are... you?
Alice: Why, I hardly know, sir. I've changed so much since this morning, you see...
Caterpillar: I do not see. Explain yourself.
Alice: I'm afraid I can't explain myself, you see, because I'm not myself, you know.
Caterpillar: I do not know.
Alice: I can't put it any more clearly, sir, because it isn't clear to me.

---

Mad Hatter: Why is a raven like a writing desk?
Alice: Riddles? Now let me see... why is a raven like a writing desk?
Mad Hatter: I beg your pardon?
Alice: Why is a raven like a writing desk?
Mad Hatter: [alarmed] Why is a what?
March Hare: Careful, she's stark ravin' mad!
Alice: But it's your silly riddle. You just said...
Mad Hatter: Easy, don't get excited!
March Hare: How about a nice cup of tea?
Alice: "Have a cup of tea," indeed! Well I'm sorry, but I just haven't the time!

---

Mad Hatter: No wonder you're late. Why, this watch is exactly two days slow.

---

Alice: In my world, the books would be nothing but pictures.

---

Alice: Curiosity often leads to trouble.

---

Alice: I simply must get through!
Doorknob: Sorry, you're much too big. Simply impassible.
Alice: You mean impossible?
Doorknob: No, impassible. Nothing's impossible.

---

White Rabbit: Why, Mary Ann! What are you doing out here?
Alice: Mary Ann?
White Rabbit: Don't just do something, stand there... Uh... no no! Go go! Go get my gloves! I'm late!
Alice: But late for what? That's just what I...
White Rabbit: My gloves!
[Blows trumpet]
White Rabbit: At once, do you hear!
Alice: Goodness. I suppose I'll be taking orders from Dinah next.

Caterpillar: By the way, I have a few more helpful hints. One side will make you grow taller...
Alice: One side of what?
Caterpillar: ...and the other side will make you grow shorter.
Alice: The other side of what?
Caterpillar: THE MUSHROOM, OF COURSE!

---

Alice: I was sitting on the riverbank with uh... with you know who...
Mad Hatter: I DO?
Alice: I mean my C-A-T.
Mad Hatter: Tea?
March Hare: [slices a tea cup in half] Just half a cup, if you don't mind.

---

Mad Hatter: Do you care for tea?
Alice: Why, yes. I'm very fond of tea.
March Hare: If you don't care for tea, you could at least make polite conversation!

---

Alice: When I get home I shall write a book about this place... If I ever do get home.

---

Cheshire Cat: All ways here you see, are the QUEEN'S WAYS!
Alice: But I've never met any queen.
Cheshire Cat: You haven't? You haVEN'T? Oh, but you must! She'll be mad about you, simply mad!
Alice: How can I find her?
Cheshire Cat: Well, some go this way, some go that way. But as for me, myself, personally, I prefer the shortcut.

---

Cheshire Cat: You know? We could make her *really* angry! Shall we try?
Alice: Oh, no, no!
Cheshire Cat: Oh, but it's loads of fun!

---

Alice: [as a giant] And as for you, your majesty! Your majesty indeed! Why, you're not a queen,
[shrinking]
Alice: You're just a fat, pompous, bad tempered old ty...
[normal size]
Alice: tyrant...
Queen of Hearts: [giggles] And uh, just what were you saying, my dear?
Cheshire Cat: Why, she simply said that you're a fat, pompous, bad tempered old tyrant!

---

Queen of Hearts: Now then, are you ready for your sentence?
Alice: But there has to be a verdict first.
Queen of Hearts: Sentence first! Verdict afterwards.
Alice: But that just isn't the way.
Queen of Hearts: [shouting] All ways are...!
Alice: ...your ways, your Majesty.

---

Alice: Why, why you're a cat!
Cheshire Cat: A *Cheshire* Cat.
[starts to disappear]
Cheshire Cat: All mimsy were the borogroves...
Alice: Oh wait!
Cheshire Cat: [reappears] There you are! Third chorus...
Alice: Oh, no, no. I was just wondering if you could help me find my way.
Cheshire Cat: Well that depends on where you want to get to.
Alice: Oh, it really doesn't matter, as long as...
Cheshire Cat: Then it really doesn't matter which way you go.

---

King of Hearts: What do you know about this unfortunate affair?
March Hare: Nothing.
Queen of Hearts: Nothing whatever?
March Hare: Nothing whatever!
Queen of Hearts: [shouts] That's very important! Jury, write that down!

---

Queen of Hearts: Now, where do you come from?
Alice: Well, I'm trying to find my way home...
Queen of Hearts: Your way? All ways here are my ways!
Alice: Yes, I know, but I was just thinking...
Queen of Hearts: Curtsy while you're thinking. It saves time.
Alice: [curtsying] Yes, Your Majesty, but I just wanted to ask you...
Queen of Hearts: I'll ask the questions! Do you play croquet?
Alice: Why, yes, Your Majesty.
Queen of Hearts: Then let the game begin!

---

White Rabbit: Her Imperial Highness, Her Grace, Her Excelency, Her Royal Majesty, the Queen of Hearts!
[Crowd cheers]
White Rabbit: ... And the King.
Voice in crowd: Hooray!

---

Alice: Well, it all started when I was sitting on the river bank with Dinah.
March Hare: Very interesting - Who's Dinah?
[Pants lasciviously]
Alice: Oh, Dinah's my cat. You see...
Dormouse: Cat? CAT!

---

Alice: Of all the silly nonsense, this is the stupidest tea party I've ever been to in all my life.

---

Orchid: To put it bluntly, a weed.

---

White Rabbit: Your Majesty, members of the jury, loyal subjects... and the King... the prisoner at the bar stands accused of enticing Her Majesty, the Queen of Hearts, into a game of croquet, thereby and with malice of forethought, molesting, tormenting, and otherwise annoying our beloved...
Queen of Hearts: Never mind all that! Get to the part where I lose my temper.
White Rabbit: ...thereby causing the Queen to lose her temper.

---

Queen of Hearts: And who is this?
King of Hearts: Let me see, my dear. It's certainly not a heart. Do you suppose it's a club?

---

King of Hearts: Rule 42: All persons more than a mile high must leave the court immediately.
Alice: I am not a mile high, and I'm not leaving.
Queen of Hearts: Sorry. Rule 42, you know.