Sunday, December 23, 2007


Quiero que te duermas como un sol
Que se acuesta en un campo de trigo
Tengo aquí en mi pecho un corazón
Igualito al hueco de tu ombligo
Sabes quien temblaba, cuando ibas a nacer
Sabes que pensé, que por ahí no ibas a poder
Sabes quien te puso en el pecho de mama, oh

Debe ser que me pediste un día una canción
Que fuera del corazón, ahí te va
Vamos a correr un rato que hay tiempo nomás
Hay tiempo nomás, todo el tiempo
Nunca nadie me dio tanta luz
Para nadie fui tan importante
Nunca quise ver tan lejos al dolor
Con verte crecer tengo bastante
Dientes asomando y dibujos en la piel
Todas las mañanas mi motor vos encendes
Mil relojes no marcan las horas como vos, oh

Vamos a besar la nieve y vamos a volar
Vamos a besar, este cielo
Nada, nada nunca nada nos va a separar
Somos una llama en el invierno

Le pedí al señor que me diera un amor
Nunca pensé seria tan profundo

Saturday, December 01, 2007

André Gorz, Lettre à D. Histoire d’un Amour

I took a photo of you, from behind: you are walking with your feet in the water on the beach of La Jolla. You are 52. You are amazing. It’s one of the images of you that I like best.

I looked at that photo for a long while after we got back home, when you told me you wondered if you didn’t have some sort of cancer. You’d already wondered that before we left for the United States but hadn’t wanted to say anything to me. Why not? ‘If I have to die, I wanted to see California beforehand,’ you told me calmly.

Your endometrial cancer hadn’t been picked up in your annual checkup. Once the diagnosis was made and the date of the operation set, we went to spend a week in the house you’d designed. I carved your name in the stone with a chisel. That house was magic. All the spaces had a trapezoidal shape. The bedroom windows looked out over the treetops.

The first night, we didn’t sleep. We were both listening to each other breathing. Then a nightingale started singing and a second one, further away, started answering. We said very little to each other. I spent the day digging and looked up from time to time at the bedroom window. You were standing there, motionless, staring into the distance. I am sure you were practising taming death in order to fight it without fear. You were so beautiful and so determined in your silence that I couldn’t imagine you giving up living.

I took time off from Le Nouvel Observateur and shared your room at the clinic. The first night, through the open window, I heard all of Schubert’s Ninth Symphony. It is etched in me, every note. I remember every moment spent at the clinic. Pierre, our doctor friend from the CNRS (Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique), who came to hear your latest news every morning, said to me: ‘You are going through moments of exceptional intensity. You’ll remember this always.’ I wanted to know what chances the oncol-ogist gave you of surviving five years. Pierre brought me the answer: ‘50-50.’

When you came out of the clinic we went back to our house. Your spirit thrilled me and reassured me. You’d escaped death and life took on a new meaning and a new value. A friend immediately understood this when you saw him at a party. He stared into your eyes for a long time and he said to you: ‘You’ve seen the other side.’ I don’t know how you responded or what else you said. But these are the words he said to me, straight afterwards: ‘Those eyes! Now I understand what she means to you.’

You had seen ‘the other side’; you’d come back from the land no one comes back from. This changed your perspective. We made the same resolution without consulting each other. An English Romantic once summed it up in a sentence: ‘There is no wealth but life.’

During the months you were convalescing, I decided to take my retirement at 60. I started counting the weeks till I could pack up. I took pleasure in cooking, in tracking down organic produce that would help you get your strength back, in ordering the specially tailored medications that a homeopath had recommended you take.

Ecology became a way of life and a daily practice without ceasing to imply the requirement of a completely different civilisation. I’d reached the age where you ask yourself what you’ve done with your life, what you would like to have done with it. I had the impression of not having lived my life, of having always observed it at a distance, of having developed only one side of myself and being poor as a person. You were, and always had been, richer than I was. You’d blossomed and grown in every dimension. You were at home in your life; whereas I’d always been in a hurry to move on to the next task, as though our life would only really begin later.

I asked myself what was the inessential that I needed to give up in order to concentrate on the essential. I told myself that, to grasp the reach of the upheavals that were looming in every domain, there had to be more space and time for reflection than the full-time exercise of my profession as a journalist allowed.

I was amazed that my leaving the journal, after 20 years of collaboration, was neither painful to myself nor to others. I remember having written that, at the end of the day, only one thing was essential to me: to be with you. I can’t imagine continuing to write, if you no longer are. You are the essential without which all the rest, no matter how important it seems to me when you are there, loses its meaning and its importance. I told you that in the dedication of my last work.

Twenty-three years have gone by since we went off to live in the country, first in ‘your’ house, which radiated a sense of meditative harmony. A harmony we enjoyed for only three years. They started building a nuclear power station nearby and that drove us away. We found another house, very old, cool in summer, warm in winter, with huge grounds. It was a place where you could be happy.

Where there was only a meadow you created a garden of hedges and shrubs. I planted 200 trees there. For a few years we still did a bit of travelling; but all the vibrating and jolting around involved in any means of transport, no matter what, triggers headaches and pain through your whole body. Arach-noiditis has forced you, little by little, to abandon most of your favourite activities. You hide your suffering. Our friends think you’re ‘in great shape’. You’ve never stopped encouraging me to write. Over the 23 years we’ve spent in our house, I’ve published six books and hundreds of articles and interviews.

We’ve had dozens of visitors from every corner of the globe and I’ve given dozens of interviews. I surely have not lived up to the resolution made 30 years ago: to live completely at home in the present, mindful above all of the richness that is our shared life. I’m now reliving the instants when I made that resolution with a sense of urgency. I don’t have any major work in the pipeline. I don’t want ‘to put off living till later’ - in Georges Bataille’s phrase – any longer.

I am as mindful of your presence now as in the early days and would like to make you feel that. You’ve given me all of your life and all of you; I’d like to be able to give you all of me in the time we have left.

You’ve just turned 82. You are still beautiful, graceful and desirable. We’ve lived together now for 58 years and I love you more than ever. Lately I’ve fallen in love with you all over again and I once more carry inside me a gnawing emptiness that can only be filled by your body snuggled up against mine.

At night I sometimes see the figure of a man, on an empty road in a deserted landscape, walking behind a hearse. I am that man. It’s you the hearse is carrying away. I don’t want to be there for your cremation; I don’t want to be given an urn with your ashes in it. I hear the voice of Kathleen Ferrier singing, ‘Die Welt ist leer, Ich will nicht leben mehr’ and I wake up. I check your breathing, my hand brushes over you.

Each of us would like not to survive the other’s death. We’ve often said to ourselves that if, by some miracle, we were to have a second life, we’d like to spend it together.

Extracted from Lettre à D. Histoire d’un Amour by André Gorz. Translated by Julie Rose

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Buenos Aires (de Tus Amores)

A la cruz de tus ojos, en madrugada,
se pierde el mal
Un nuevo día es tanto
que hace bien y que salva
Te vi bailando sola
entre exceso y discreción,
buscando historia, juntando años
Sobre mí se abre tu flor de humedad

En muchos de tus lugares
con el amor no alcanza
Hasta un buen corazón
puede perder la calma
Dame de lo que puedas,
o se perderá para siempre
Todo lo que cayó ardió dos veces
Sobre mí se abre tu flor de humedad

Buenos Aires, ciudad del sino,
duende de un destino
Ante la luz de tus amores, de tu misterio divino,
hoy no sé, mañana tal vez, caiga rendido

El tiempo y el agua que tiene hoy este río
aún no pudo apagar tanto fuego caído
Vicios de sociedad
que está esperando un milagro
Algunos los que van, otros clavados al barro
Sobre mí se abre tu flor de humedad

Se van juntando almas,
símbolo de un sueño que nace
Tantos años de lucha,
por tus rincones y calles
Prisionero fugaz que está con vos y con otra
Boca roja de tango que me provoca
Sobre mí se abre tu flor de humedad

Buenos Aires, ciudad del sino,
duende de un destino
Ante la luz de tus amores, de tu misterio divino,
hoy no sé, mañana tal vez, caiga rendido

Leon Gieco

Thursday, July 26, 2007



tu lluvia
deja caer pedazos de tiempo
pedazos de infinito
pedazos de nosotros.


¿cómo te llamas?
soy un ciego sentado
en el atrio de mi deseo
mendigo tiempo.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Elvis Costello, SHE

She may be the face I can't forget

The trace of pleasure or regret
Maybe my treasure or the prize I have to pay
She may be the song that summer sings
Maybe the children autumn brings
Maybe a hundred different things
Within the measure of a day

She may be the beauty or the beast
Maybe the famine or the feast
May turn each day into a Heaven or a Hell
She may be the mirror of my dreams
A smile reflected in a stream
She may not be what she may seem
Inside her shell....

She, who always seems so happy in a crowd
Whose eyes can be so private and so proud
No one's allowed to see them when they cry
She maybe the love that cannot hope to last
May come to leap from shadows in the past
That I remember 'till the day I die

She maybe the reason I survive
The why and wherefore kind of life
The one I care for through the rough and ready years

Me, I'll take the laughter and your tears
And make them all my souvenirs
And when she goes I've got to be
The meaning of my life is
Oh, she....

Friday, July 13, 2007

La canción el probador

Entró al probador
y agarró la minifalda
luego la calzó
y después giró la espalda.

Llamó al vendedor,
quiso que le dé un consejo:
quería saber
si el cuero era viejo.

El muchacho no pudo pensar,
comenzó a transpirar,
se le iba a dar.

Ella vio una adecuada reacción
y arrastró al vendedor
dentro del probador.

Sin perder tiempo
la hicieron corta y se borraron.Canciones de Virus


Thursday, July 05, 2007


La mujer que yo quiero, no necesita

bañarse cada noche en agua bendita.
Tiene muchos defectos, dice mi madre,
y demasiados huesos, dice mi padre.

Pero ella es más verdad que el pan y la tierra.
Mi amor es un amor de antes de la guerra.
Para saberlo...
La mujer que yo quiero, no necesita
deshojar cada noche una margarita.

La mujer que yo quiero, es fruta jugosa
prendida de mi alma como si cualquier cosa.
Con ella quieren dármela mis amigos,
y se amargan la vida mis enemigos...

Porque sin querer tú, te envuelve su arrullo,
y contra su calor se pierde el orgullo
y la vergüenza...

La mujer que yo quiero, es fruta jugosa
madurando feliz, dulce y vanidosa.

La mujer que yo quiero, me ató a su yunta
para sembrar la tierra de punta a punta,
de un amor que nos habla con voz de sabio,
y tiene de mujer la piel y los labios.

Son todos suyos mis compañeros de antes...
Mi perro, mi scalextric y mis amantes.

Pobre Juanito...
La mujer que yo quiero, me ató a su yunta.
Pero, por favor, no se lo digas nunca.

Joan Manuel Serrat

Saturday, June 30, 2007

Georges Bataille, The Inner Experience

"Thus we are nothing,neither you nor I, beside burning words which could pass from me to you, imprinted on a page:for I would only have lived in order to write them,and,if it is true they are addressed to you, you will live from having had the strength to hear them (In the same way,what do the two lovers, Tristan and Isolde, signify, if considered without their love, in a solitude which leaves them to some commonplace pursuit? Two pale beings,deprived of the marvellous;nothing counts but the love which tears them both apart)"

Selected by Anthony Druggan

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Pablo Neruda

Poema VI
Te recuerdo como eras en el último otoño...

Te recuerdo como eras en el último otoño.
Eras la boina gris y el corazón en calma.
En tus ojos peleaban las llamas del crepúsculo.
Y las hojas caían en el agua de tu alma.

Apegada a mis brazos como una enredadera,
las hojas recogían tu voz lenta y en calma.
Hoguera de estupor en que mi sed ardía.
Dulce jacinto azul torcido sobre mi alma.

Siento viajar tus ojos y es distante el otoño:
boina gris, voz de pájaro y corazón de casa hacia donde emigraban
mis profundos anhelos
y caían mis besos alegres como brasas.

Cielo desde un navío. Campo desde los cerros.
Tu recuerdo es de luz, de humo, de estanque en calma!
Más allá de tus ojos ardían los crepúsculos.
Hojas secas de otoño giraban en tu alma.

Friday, April 20, 2007

Wednesday, January 10, 2007


If I close my eyes I see your face and I'm not without you
If I trying hard and concentrate I can still hear you speak
I picture myself in your room by the chair
you're smoking a cigarette
If I close my eyes I can see your face you're saying, "I missed you"
Dreamin' - I'm always dreamin'

If I close my eyes I can smell your perfume you look and say "Hi baby"
If I close my eyes pictures from China still hang from the wall
I hear the dog bark I turned and say, "what were you saying?"
I pictured you in the red chair inside the pale room

You sat in your chair with a tube in your arm - you were so skinny
You were still making jokes I don't know what drugs they had you on
You said, " I guess this is not the time for long term investments"
You were always laughing but you never laughing at me

They say in the end the pain was so bad that you were screaming
Now you were no saint but you deserved better than that
From the corner I watch them moving things from your apartment
But I can picture you red chair and pale room inside my head

If I close my eyes I see your face and I'm not without you
If I try hard and concentrate I can gear your voice saying,
"Who better than you"
If I close my eyes I can't believe that I'm here without you
Inside your pale room your empty red chair and my head
Dreamin' , I'm always dreamin'