Getting close to the fatal
Killing... a now cliche term in the jazz community for sparkling performance.
Swing axe or songbird, clear waters, muscle and immaculate communication. Worlds are borne, to get closer to death and to get stronger. The borders between love and death are crossed to become self-identical.
These musicians stayed for over a decade in Mexico, and even by Latin American standards, the happiness-death nexus crosses the borders into a wild grief, so to speak.
This poem found in the breast pocket of an activist with his girlfriend's photo. The grief songs of Latin America, even where they sound happy, they are confounding to the English order and shape of localised emotions.
On the high hour of night
Roque Dalton, El Salvador
When you know that I have died do not pronounce my name
Because then death could stop and rest
Your voice, the bell of the five senses
Would be the tenuous lantern sought by my mists
When you know that I have died I gave strange syllables
I uttered the words "flower, bee, tears, bread, storm"
Do not let your lips find my eleven letters
I have dreams, I have loved, I've won the silence
Do not say my name when you know that I have died
For the dark earth would come through your voice
Do not say my name
(loose translation, AutoPirate)
Swing axe or songbird, clear waters, muscle and immaculate communication. Worlds are borne, to get closer to death and to get stronger. The borders between love and death are crossed to become self-identical.
These musicians stayed for over a decade in Mexico, and even by Latin American standards, the happiness-death nexus crosses the borders into a wild grief, so to speak.
This poem found in the breast pocket of an activist with his girlfriend's photo. The grief songs of Latin America, even where they sound happy, they are confounding to the English order and shape of localised emotions.
On the high hour of night
Roque Dalton, El Salvador
When you know that I have died do not pronounce my name
Because then death could stop and rest
Your voice, the bell of the five senses
Would be the tenuous lantern sought by my mists
When you know that I have died I gave strange syllables
I uttered the words "flower, bee, tears, bread, storm"
Do not let your lips find my eleven letters
I have dreams, I have loved, I've won the silence
Do not say my name when you know that I have died
For the dark earth would come through your voice
Do not say my name
(loose translation, AutoPirate)
