Scrierile mele despre viaţă: Stări de noiembrie

11/16/11

Stări de noiembrie

M-am trezit cu gândul departe, spre un nou viitor, alături de piesa lui Bryan Ferry, de pe acel album scris cu nume tare dragi precum Brian Eno, Groove Armada, David Gilmour, Scissor Sisters sau Flea de la RHCP.

"Me Oh My" este genul de creaţie în care mă pierd şi mă regăsesc, fără să înţeleg cum poate o singură melodie să aibe acest efect asupra mea. Am încercat să o încadrez unui gen, unei anume stări, dar este practic imposibil...
Piesa vorbeşte despre un cumul de sentimente, pe acorduri line de pian, cu riff-uri de chitară pe care eşti obligat să le ţii minte...din simplul fapt că sunt parte integrantă din tine...
Recunosc, am ascultat piesa în dimineaţa aceasta de nenumărate ori, cu ochii închişi, cu aerul rece alături şi cu o strângere de inimă de fiecare dată...din pricina versurilor...

Înteleg încă o dată cât adevăr putea fi în vorbele lui Victor Hugo: "Muzica exprimă ceea ce nu poate fi rostit"...

http://soundcloud.com/bryanferry/me-oh-my-max-harris-project-1

"If it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don't do it. Unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don't do it. If you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words, don't do it. If you're doing it for money or fame, don't do it. If you're doing it because you want women in your bed, don't do it. If you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again, don't do it. If it's hard work just thinking about doing it, don't do it. If you're trying to write like somebody else, forget about it. If you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait patiently. If it never does roar out of you, do something else. If you first have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your parents or to anybody at all, you're not ready. Don't be like so many writers, don't be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers, don't be dull and boring and pretentious, don't be consumed with self-love. The libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind. Don't add to that. Don't do it. Unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don't do it. Unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don't do it. When it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you. There is no other way. And there never was." - Charles Bukowski

“Sit down. Inhale. Exhale. The gun will wait. The lake will wait. The tall gall in the small seductive vial will wait will wait: will wait a week: will wait through April. You do not have to die this certain day. Death will abide, will pamper your postponement. I assure you death will wait. Death has a lot of time. Death can attend to you tomorrow. Or next week. Death is just down the street; is most obliging neighbor; can meet you any moment. You need not die today. Stay here–through pout or pain or peskyness. Stay here. See what the news is going to be tomorrow. Graves grow no green that you can use. Remember, green’s your color. You are Spring.”