Geraldine wrote a captivating poem about the sea and the spell it weaves upon us.

Merging, mesmerizing colors.
Ivory and aquamarine in subtle,swirling patterns.
Sandy brown beach and shimmering shoreline.
Drawing us, ever near.

For centuries past and for all time to come.
The Lady of the Sea will be calling.
Lucky are the ones.
Able to answer this eternal invitation.

To my delight David is continuing with a story he began last week and is going to use subsequent prompts to develop the plot. It will be intriguing to see where he ends up.

Have you ever wondered ‘what am I doing here in the dust and dirt when I’m drawn by the sea’? ‘Why am I living this fish-out-of-water life? I have. I did. I still do.

Anthony combined a poem and a story in this wonderful piece with a message. I had to include the final paragraph because I liked it so much.

He got out of bed. Walked out the door. Stood on the early morning beach, watching the waves he loved. Then, to his left, the shadow of the vile power station consumed him, vomiting its devastation, adding to the chemical stew that would melt the ice and raise the level of the oceans.
He WOULD be an eco-warrior, he knew. For he realized the importance of the coastline – knew that it, his country, his society, the land itself, must not be re-drawn by the sea.

Lauri wrote a story with a happy ending, or as I said - a happy beginning. It is poetic, it is romantic, it is a meeting of kindred spirits.

He was as untamed looking as the ocean, as the desert. His hair long and matted like the beard that poured down his chest. He wore little in the way of clothing, something that might have been trousers were all that covered him and then not very well. His skin was black and criss-crossed with deep wrinkles speaking of a life spent with nature. “Hello,” he said in a voice not often used. He was neither surprised nor interested in her and went back to his pieces of sea moulded glass.

I went all Celtic fantasy. Have you ever read any of those Celtic myths? Some of them are brutal. Those Celts didn't take any prisoners.

Mara’s face was on fire. ‘O, great sky, give me strength against this defiler.’ She was on her knees, tugging at her hair when the sky began to glower. Bitter clouds thrust themselves in the direction of Weylin’s house. Rain and wind pelted the roof. Storms and chaos. The house began to shudder.

Lissa wrote a sad love story. It's one of those stories where you sigh at the end, where you say to yourself: 'If only it could have been different....'

In the morning, like all other mornings, Paula sat in the yard watching the sea. She doesn't remember when she started sitting there but it has always calmed her even on days when she thought she couldn't get through. After her automobile accident, she needed the sea to keep her mind sane. When she can speak again, she will tell George all her thoughts about the sea.

TBall captured the essence of surfing, of riding a wave with her wonderful poem. The joy contained in this is what surfing is all about.

Drawn by the sea I paddle out,
Sitting on the board, with only the top half above water
Waiting to catch that perfect wave…
As the wave approaches, its time to point the board towards the beach
I lay down and paddle hard
At the perfect moment, when the board is faster than my paddling
I popup…

Karen portrayed a family at odds - one side drawn to the mountains, one side drawn to the sea. This was a wonderful fantasy tale.

This was life to me. The Great Mother Ocean beckons, draws me near, holding my spirit as a willing captive. My brother’s fear is as foreign to me as a ball gown is to a bulldog. His trembling grew steadily worse, and I knew he was about to bolt for the safety of the stone house on the high cliffs. For a moment, I was torn: should I stay here and listen to the Great Mother’s voice, or should I follow him home?

Kayt's innovative poem  is reminiscent of the ebb and flow of the tides. Read it out loud to get the rhythm.

oscillations
drawn by
the ocean
are transient
sand
patterns
reformed and reformed

Excellent pieces all. It is so nice to have all of this wonderful writing to read every week.

Thank you for your contributions.

I will look forward to some more great reading next week!

I did this in front of Geraldine (our model for this piece) while being bored and distracted in a kinesiology class. I've never done any pieces like this in the presence of the actual model, so it's interesting to hear the feedback while the work is in progress. It almost becomes a collaborative effort.

On the second day, I added color correction to most of the clips since everything was transparent, something needed to stand out.  By adding the color correction, some colors were accentuated. I also spent time synchronizing the video to the audio where it was necessary, and applied transitions.

Finally, the third day, I used Media 3 to create an explosive effect at the end of the introduction.  We added extra sequence of the dancers on the 3rd verse of the song, the credits at the end of the video. Although, I used Final Cut Pro 2 to bring the volume on two interviews, I needed the expertise of Engineered Kamilo Kratc to help me adjust the audio on those two brief moments.  I exported the sequence to create a Quick Time movie clip using the Best Quality settings and then used Toast 9 Titanium to burn the Quick Time movie clip as a DVD movie and also as Data for uploads.

Here is the result of the video:

We headed via Lake Pukaki, hopeful of a view of Mount Cook but it remained hidden by clouds. Then followed the canals up to Twizel, a town originally built to house workers on the region's major dam projects but which survives as it is next to another spectacular turquoise glacial lake. Here also are a lovely simple stone church made from rocks they took out of the lake, called the Church of the Good Shepherd which welcomes all faiths to quiet contemplation, and a bronze statue of a sheepdog.

Passing through the tussocked basin and through Burke Pass on our route to Geraldine, we go through Mackenzie country named after a Scottish shepherd who tried to hide stolen sheep here. We then stopped at Geraldine for an excellent steak sandwich lunch, timed perfectly to avoid an 80th and 21st birthday celebration!

From there we travelled into Queenstown and checked into the same hotel we'd stayed the first night. We took a walk around town and grabbed photos of the town centre landmarks. The day ended with a meal in The Boulevard.

We have some highly creative writers at Search Engine Stories.

If you haven't already, you should check out their work!

David presented a surrealist interpretation of the prompt which really tickled my fancy -

I had awakened in a room filled with eyes. These eyes were in glass jars. They were all human eyes, of differing shapes, sizes, and colours. One set of eyes, which I assumed to be the leader eyes, spoke to me-telepathically.

“It’s good to see you” said the leader-eyes.

Geraldine wrote a loving tribute to her dearest one. It made me feel really glad for her to read it -

It’s good to see your smiling face.
Looking up from the street.
As another day turns to night.
A welcome sight.
My saving grace.

Lissa's story was wonderful. A ghost story or a love story? You decide -

Today, he woke up in the middle of a reverie, a feeling he couldn't shake took over. He splash water on his face but could not get the image of her face out of his mind. It was a dream but somehow the feel of her hand was so real, more real then real. In the mirror, he saw gray shadows underneath his eyes which are barely open. Will he be dreaming about her all his life? Will she not leave him and let him be content living without her?

There is such a sense of the epic in Bear's work. Powerful, profound images -

free with spirit, doing your best,
bubbling with laughter, permeated in depth,
seeking, wanting to be found, embracing patience,
truly you as i know you

Anthony went all post-apocalyptic on us. A chilling yet hopeful piece. Read it and you'll see what I mean -

‘It’s good to see you …’
I stand by the mirror, a survivor. And as far as I can tell, I am the last man alive. Of all men who ever were, I am the last …
I stand by the mirror. Observe my many faces in the cracked glass, a paranoid image reflecting a paranoid species. But I survived the megalomaniacs. Fractured? Yes. Disjointed? Yes. But I am the last man alive …

Lauri posed a question I'm sure many of us consider from time to time. Are we a part of other people's memories in the same way they are a part of ours?

Today, my mind is crowded with people.
They push and shove to the front.
Loves from a time long gone,
But still present in my thoughts.
Pain and joy tossed but not mixed
Each playing their same cutting role.
And I wonder

Today, am I in your memories too?

Kayt is writing all my text messages from now on. She really has a knack for them -

ooops!/that’s my Outlook/gotta run/feelbetterkisskiss

huh?/oh rite – yeahshur

good t’ c u 2

Selma (that's me) wrote a piece about an old love lost for good -

Our eyes met across a crowded room. I’ve always wanted to say that. It is as corny an experience as you might think. Yet it is real. You came over to my table immediately where I was ensconced with all the maiden aunts, drowning in eau de toilette with a hint of lavender. You pulled me to my feet and kissed me just like it was yesterday. ‘It’s good to see you,’ you said with that knowing smile you have.

TBall summed up so well the easy rapport that occurs between friends and how it can be such a joy to see them -

On good days when things are going great…
It is good to see you too.
Whether it is just for coffee, a drink, a movie or just to chill and act silly…
We end up having the time of our lives, laughing and joking…
You making the funny faces and talking with that british accent,
And me laughing so hard that I can’t breathe…

Karen showed her versatility as a writer by producing a poignant piece of poetry. Oh, Karen, you do tug at my heart strings -

We meet in those moments
cram them full of as much
life as we can
uncertain moments
that don’t last as long
as I want.

I mentioned in the comments how much I am enjoying the experience of sharing everyone's writing. I hope you are too. It is a very happy part of my week!

Kings of Leon, Sex on Fire. I may have a copy of the album that has been floain on the internet. Its good. Very good. Can't wait to buy it.

Flobots, Handlebars. Nice buildey rap song, in the vein of Messiah J who I have also been listening to lately. Check them out i Whelans this weekend, on Sunday, for 20 notes, tickets here

Glasvegas, Geraldine. See review a few posts lower.

And an oldie, but one that is stuck in my head:

Men At Work singer Colin Hay does Overkill. Might remember it from Scrubs, or the original Men At Work version. Yes, they did more than just I Come From A Land Down Underrrrr.

Thats it for now, might try to make this a regular feature though...

Antes de tudo, vale dizer que o quarteto escocês Glasvegas é um achado e tanto em um ano relativamente carente de boas "coisas novas" no rock alternativo. Mas também cabe a ressalva: eles não vão salvar a música... ainda. Essa nota 3 / 5 para o disco de estréia da banda, que foi lançado na semana passada, mostra que o grupo tem muito a oferecer nas 10 faixas, mas ainda tem um bom tempo pra amadurecer daqui pra frente.

O álbum "Glasvegas" estreou em segundo lugar nas paradas do Reino Unido, só atrás do novo do Metallica - feito que, convenhamos, tem cada vez menos importância hoje em dia. O que mais chama a atenção no desempenho dos músicos é a capacidade de criar um som novo, mas que remete a estilos clássicos do rock. James Allan (voz e guitarra), Rab Allan (guitarra), Paul Donoghue (baixo) e Caroline McKay (bateria) mostram um toque inconfudível do rockabilly e doo wop em suas canções. Ouçam "Daddy's Gone" e tentem não concordar comigo. A parte inovadora vem da sonoridade noise pop, shoegaze e space rock, que garante à banda o rótulo de rock alternativo.

Por outro lado, quem prestar atenção nas letras do grupo (cantadas com um sotaque carregado), pode ficar meio constrangido com alguns clichês. James Allan está longe de ser um bom poeta, mas consegue algum sucesso na minha favorita do disco, "It's My Own Cheating Heart That Makes Me Cry". Em outras, os temas escolhidos são de gosto duvidoso. Na faixa que abre o álbum, "Flowers & Football Tops", Allan se coloca no lugar de um pai que perde o filho assassinado - caso real, noticiado na imprensa britânica. Já "Lonesome Swan" é uma metáfora inspirada num pedalinho em formato de cisne que era... o patinho feio de um lago em Andaluzia. E, claro, existe a pérola "Geraldine", que termina com a frase "meu nome é Geraldine, eu sou sua assistente social". Então tá.

O Glasvegas começou a ficar famoso há mais ou menos um ano, quando colocou suas primeiras canções na Internet. Recentemente, o grupo assinou com a poderosa Columbia Records e deixou Glasgow - berço de Franz Ferdinand, Mogwai e muitos outros - para gravar o disco de estréia em Nova York. A produção ficou a cargo de James Allan e de Rich Costley, britânico responsável por álbuns como "You Could Have It So Much Better" (Franz Ferdinand) e "Our Love To Admire" (Interpol).

E aqui eu faço um comentário que justifica parte da nota dessa resenha e que talvez faça muita gente que gostou da banda torcer no nariz. Nessa travessia do Atlântico com um contrato debaixo do braço, o Glasvegas perdeu a espontaneidade que existia em faixas como "Daddy's Gone" e "Geraldine". Foi mais ou menos o que eu disse sobre o Black Kids há um tempo. É claro que, por outro lado, as gravações ficaram mais bem acabadas e as guitarras ganharam qualidade. Resta à banda usar os benefícios do mainstream a seu favor para amadurecer e inovar.

Mas pode ser que pouca coisa mude para o segundo álbum. Em entrevista recente a um site britânico, o vocalista James Allan disse que o grupo já pensa em produzir mais um disco. Vai ser um "álbum de Natal"... gravado na Transilvânia, terra do Conde Drácula. Que não seja mais uma frescura de mais uma banda que bebeu demais do hype.

perchè sono interessanti i glasvegas? oltre al fatto che il cantante ricorda joe strummer e la batterista sta in piedi davanti a due fustini di detersivo che percuote in modo profondamente e stupendamente inconsapevole, c'è quell'unione affascinante di due mondi diversi, gli anni 50-60 e gli 80 più cupi, che già stavano diventando anni 90 (anche nelle liriche), e c'è allo stesso tempo un incredibile potenziale radiofonico, in senso buono s'intende.
Alan Mcgee, uno che ha scoperto tanti gruppi e che ha puntato subito su di loro, ha riassunto bene la differenza tra i gruppi semplicemente da classifica e i gruppi destinati a lasciare un segno, ed è un pensiero che vale per tutti, al di là dei Glasvegas.
ci sono i gruppi che si ispirano alla musica che circola per la top 40 e ci sono i gruppi che si ispirano ai grandi della storia del rock. c'è chi prende dagli originali e chi prende dagli imitatori.
c'è ancora spazio per fare del rock'n'roll che diventi un classico, oltre i fuochi di paglia dei gruppi da tre minuti e tre mesi in classifica. e dentro questa musica c'è elvis, ci sono gli oasis, ci sono i jesus and mary chain, c'è phil spector, i velvet underground e i beach boys.
per lui i Glasvegas sono il gruppo britannico che lascerà il segno in questo primo decennio del duemila (visto che i libertines di Pete Doherty sono esplosi un secondo prima di arrivarci), dopo gli smiths per gli ottanta e gli oasis per i novanta.
in particolare questa canzone:

ci sono versioni migliori (intere, più pulite e quella del disco) su youtube ma questa è più intensa e la qualità è ancora decente

non ho la minima idea se ciò che scrive McGee (lo scrive sul suo blog sul Guardian) sia vero, ma qualche mese fa, prima di leggere le sue parole, sentendo la musica dei Glassvegas ho avuto la sensazione che ci fosse qualcosa di sostanzioso dentro questa musica.

la prima canzone che ho sentito, che dopo qualche ascolto del disco rimane la preferita è Daddy's gone:

seguita a ruota dal nuovo singolo...già presente nel post precedente ma qui in versione acustica:

il primo disco dimostra come la scrittura del gruppo sia solida ma abbia anche molti margini di miglioramento. ed è proprio questo che mi fa ben sperare. In alcuni tentativi marginali di uscire dallo schema dei primi singoli potrebbe esserci la chiave della maturazione per un eventuale prossimo disco. Ma ne ho visti tanti di gruppi lasciare piccole gemme solitarie che per ora mi godo soltanto il fatto che dopo i metallica nella classifica inglese c'è un tizio con la faccia da Joe Strummer che vorrebbe essere elvis e che ha una pronuncia che non capisco manco con il testo davanti.

(un giorno devo fare il punto della situazione perchè ho la sensazione di amare moltissimi gruppi scozzesi)

First impressions, I really like it. Its a difficult one to describe, the total sound. Its just huge. Its reverb, circling notes and guitars clanging in the nicest possible way, and sound like they are bing played a million miles away, but with some kind of ghostly clarity. This might be twee, but it almost sounds bagpipey, the melody melts and blends, so that it complements the more defined vocal and rythm sections. Pounding drums and crashing symbols make up the final sound, and to be honest, rather than sounding like a fire in a music shop, it really works, all the layers are more than a sum of their parts.

The opener Flowers and Football Tops, which is written from the point of view of a father reflecting on the murder of his son, is simply magnificent and, I can only imagine, it captures the inability to understand, and the distracted though process. (I dare anyone to listen all the way through without feeling moved). This is followed up by Geraldine, another beautiful song this time about a "social worker" who describes herself as a guardian angel. Other standouts for me at least are Daddy's Gone, Go Square Go and S.A.D. Light.

Stabbed is one which will stick in the listeners head most though, using Beethoven as the backdrop to retell a story of confrontation with a gang, the Young Baltic Fleeto, and maybe a knife. Allen doesn't sing, he bitterly recites the lyrics, “No cavalry could ever save me/I’m gonna get stabbed”, before deciding to run rather than fight. Its a raw song, and one that shows the fear of knife crime in a way that other songwriters just can't seem to grasp.

I suppose that is the best way of describing Glasvegas, they are raw band. Allen sings every lyric in a broad Glasgow accent, which lends greater meaning to the emotion he is conveying. Emotion and fragility comes through what some have described as a wall of sound tracing its roots back to Phil Spector, Elvis, the Jesus and Mary Chain. These guys mean business too, an estimated 100,000 sales in the first three days of release, and already talking about their next record, a Christmas one no less.

Glasvegas are a definate must have for music fans this September. I fear the album might be marmite, some will love it, some will hate it, but for god sake, do yourself a favour and listen to it.

By Alexander Lawrie
 
GLASVEGAS girl Caroline McKay has opened her heart about life on the road with her bandmates.
 
The 25 year-old drummer claims to love the guys like “brothers”, and has spilled the beans on their embarrassing peeing and farting escapades.
 
And she claims she has spent so much time with the guys that she can even tell which one of the boys is to blame for the nasty deed.
 
In a hilarious account of band life, Caroline embarrasses 6ft 4 man mountain guitarist Rab by claiming he uses Lush bath bombs and listens to Club Tropicana by Wham.
 
But she confesses she loves sharing a room with him because he always carries his hair straighteners wherever he goes.
 
She said: “When you’re in a van several hours a day with three boys it’s not unusual to scream “open the freakin’ window”, whilst gagging at the smell.
 
“I can now actually tell whose brand is whose. Paul has been offered money for colonic irrigation on a weekly basis, in hope we find the rat residing up his ass.
 
“Rab wakes me up every morning by farting on me and never tires of it. The one and only time I returned the favour he was left sobbing like a little girl.
 
“He then proceeds to take twice as long as me to get ready, uses half a can of hair spray, half choking me to death. He’s a great room mate though, as he always has straighteners.”
 
Guitarist Rab was also left embarrassed after he came onto the tour bus wearing a pair of newly-cleaned cowboy boots which he had washed in a puddle.
 
The band were puzzled that there could be water outside on such a nice day, until James admitted the ‘puddle’ was his pee.
 
The Glaswegian four-piece, who have just seen their album go straight into the charts at number two, still get excited when they spot their music in the shops.
 
Caroline said: “All in all though there’s not one minute of the tears, the laughter and the fights that I'd change as the boys are like brothers, and the journey we’re all on together is a once in a lifetime experience.
 
“To now walk into a shop and see our music on the shelf is truly amazing. 
 
“I get goosebumps when we go to do an in-store and all these people are there to see us and understand the music.”

- un concorso di bellezza, che già non brillerà per menti geniali di suo, a frosinone ha invitato in qualità di presidente onorario della giuria Erich Priebke, Nazista, Ex SS, uno dei responsabili dell'Eccidio delle Fosse Ardeatine. Nonostante il parere contrario del tribunale che ha vietato la partecipazione dal vivo del nostro amico, l'organizzatore, tal claudio marini, ha voluto lo stesso la partecipazione di una così importante e carismatica figura da organizzare una videoconferenza. Nessun commento. Spero solo che qualcuno si alzi e ed esca dalla sala in quel momento.

E ora musica...

gran disco, particolarissimo, divertente.Gran tiro.

In seguito magari ne parlerò innalzandomi da questi monosillabi.

Glasvegas - Geraldine

ora guinness

By Alexander Lawrie

BAND of the moment Glasvegas marked the release of their debut album on Sunday night with a very special midnight performance at the HMV store in Edinburgh.

The Glaswegian four-piece thrilled 350 fans with a short, but stunning, five song set that included cover versions of All I Have To Do Is Dream by the Everly Brothers and Be My Baby by The Ronnettes.

The band also played hit singles Geraldine and Daddy’s Gone, along with new song Lonesome Swan.

Afterwards, the group delighted fans by signing copies of their album for over two hours.

To commemorate the release of the album, HMV gave away 350 wristbands free of charge that guaranteed fans entry to the initmate late night show.

The ecstatic crowd waited patiently for their heroes to appear who were fashionably late after speeding up to the Princes Street store after performing earlier that evening at the city’s Liquid Rooms.

An HMV spokesman said: “The demand for this album is expected to be colossal. We haven’t had this much interest in a debut album since Definitely Maybe by Oasis came out.

“We started giving wristbands away this morning as soon as we opened, and they were all gone after about half an hour.

“HMV are delighted to be involved in the launch of Glasvegas’ debut album and would be keen to be involved in any future releases or events.

“Judging by the reaction of the crowd tonight, Glasvegas will be around for a very long time to come.”

Avid fan Tom McRae, from Musselburgh, said: “The show tonight was absolutely amazing. I mean any band who drinks Buckfast on stage gets my vote. Top notch.

“What does it for me is the realism of the band, it’s just true music. The ballads and the rockabilly sound really make it for me. We’ve had nothing like them since the arrival of Oasis back in the day.”

Glasvegas are currently in the middle of sold-out British tour before they head off to the States for a series of live dates.

Geraldine posed many of the questions we ask ourselves along our life's journey:

If only….   

We could forgive ourselves.

The “mistakes” along the way.

The fork in the road we were left to ponder.

Alone.

To have chosen the:

Wrong path

Wrong people.

Wrong life to live?

Lissa wrote about an angel who became human. I happen to love this story. I just love anything to do with angels.

As she hung a white shirt on the clothesline, she saw me. Her face went pale but then her lips turns to that wicked smile she always used on me. I move towards her slowly unsure of who I found.

"Michael," she whispered, wrapping me in her small arms, careful of my wings. The smell of detergent flew into my nose and an image of Arianna as an old woman knitting a baby sweater popped into my head.


Lauri K wrote about a little girl making a divine deal. It reminded me of the deals I used to make with the powers that be when I was a wee one.

On the day the light appeared at the top of St. Mary’s steeple, Claudia was sure her prayers had been answered. Although her father looked at the red-gold light high up in the sky and decided the only cause could be aliens, Claudia was convinced that God had finally found time in his busy schedule to listen to her nightly prayers. Every night for two and half years, once the door was firmly closed, Claudia knelt at the side of her bed and made a deal with him; she would be a good girl for the rest of her life if only he would find her mother and bring her back home. Somehow she was positive the light was him saying the deal was on.

Chris feels his poem is gloomy but I think it is profound.

I was born in silence and stillness


No one ever needed to know why


Locked inside my own mind


Unhampered by the sun

Bear wrote a piece about nature, creation and birth. He is a new member of the group and a fellow Aussie. Welcome, Bear. Hope you enjoy it here.

The restless marmot, awake at an awkward hour for reasons uncharacteristic of such a beast lingers with an ataxic shuffle above his den as he scans the horizon awkwardly, with unadjusted eyes, toward the sound of the coyotes songs. He let’s out a boisterous “Neep!” in the coyotes direction as he chuckles to himself, with visions of their confusion and excitement prancing through his mind.

I couldn't resist delving into the old urban legend about Bloody Mary. I do like a bit of suspense and gore.

I don’t know if hindsight is colouring my memory, but the sky that afternoon seemed tinged with sadness. A bird, a tiny little wren with midnight blue wings, alighted on the tree outside the cafeteria and cocked his head at me as if to say:’You are above this type of thing.’ There was a slight chill in the air that cut across the football fields, jagged and strange. I wanted to run and never stop.

David recounted a story we should all remember when we are besieged by moments of regret.

 What I like about this story is that  it simultaneously says ‘believe in your self because the ‘Maestro’ might be wrong and you do have what it takes and should follow your dreams and passions. But even if the ‘Maestro’ is right and you never make it as professional concert violinist it’s not the end of the world'. 

 

Kayt's poem for me captured the essence of what one means when one says If Only.....

too sad…

..

life

—a blink—

no refunds

no returns

Karen wrote a piece about a man with cancer and how burdened he was by it. Very moving. Beautifully written.

The blossoms fell for an entire week. She began to wonder how any tree could possibly hold that many flower petals and still remain upright. He would spend hours just sitting at the window, watching the pink petals as they pooled in eddies of air, settling into fluttering puddles. She heard him sigh.
“If only,” he began, “If only-”
“Don’t! Don’t play that horrible game. Please. It’s…morbid.”
When he turned to her, his face was lined with pain and his eyes looked even more sunken than they had the day before. “Why not play a morbid game? I FEEL morbid. I LOOK morbid. I’ve seen myself in the mirror and I think Death looks better than I do right now.”
“Stop it.”

TBall wrote a piece about her battle with breast cancer. I cannot imagine how hard it must be. 

If only - those are two very powerful words…

They are two words that are constantly on my mind right now…

If only the results would have been different

If only I hadn’t found the lump

If only I can pretend that this is not happening to me

If only I could turn back time to when I was healthy

 

Once again, excellent interpretations of the prompt. Thank you all once again for your participation. Hope you are getting as much out of it as I am.

Not so, you sexists. After all, it was not six months ago when my mom told me she supported Hillary Clinton. I asked her why.

Because she's a woman. I've been waiting for this for a while. I think we need to see a woman president. She won't mess it all up.

She chuckled her mom chuckle. I groaned inside.

After trying to convince her that she was using particularly bad reasoning, my mom gave me one of those familiar "I guess you're right" sighs, and we changed the subject. I'm not sure I changed her mind.

Whether or not you want to vote for John McCain, and whatever you think about Sarah Palin, having a woman on the Republican ticket will draw votes their way. However well Mondale and Ferraro know that with an unconventional vice presidential pick the number of votes ]might not be enough, those votes will, in some quantity, materialize.

In a normal election year against a reasonably popular figure --- say, 1984 --- those votes wouldn't amount to much. This is not a normal election year.

Consider this: At least some part of Hillary Clinton's highly mobilized, energized electorate voted for her because she was a woman. Which way will that no less energized part vote when, feeling betrayed by their party, are subsequently given the opportunity to vote in a female vice president?

Guess which way John McCain's betting.

So it's been confirmed by the Associated Press and Obama's website that Joe Biden has been selected as Barack Obama's running mate for the presidential election. The news was actually leaked hours before Obama's campaign planned to release the news to his supporters by email and text message.

"You will receive an email the moment Barack makes his decision, or you can text VP to 62262 to receive a text message on your mobile phone."

Actually, it's been hours and I still haven't received an email. Disappointing considering the technological edge Obama has over McCain. (John McCain doesn't know how to use a computer.)

What I've noticed about building a strong presidential campaign is that it's exactly like building an effective Pokemon team. The purpose of the Pokemon trainer's Pokemon is to fight for and to defend the Pokemon trainer. If a Pokemon refuses to fight for the trainer and decides to pursue his own career, then the Pokemon is useless. A Pokemon that doesn't synchronize well with the team, or worse attacks the other Pokemon is counterproductive.

How this applies to the 2008 presidential campaign is that Obama has gathered people around him that are not only talented, but selfless. Obama's campaign staff are distinguished from other campaigns and organizations because of their no-drama, no-ego focus. Their number one rule is that credit is directed to their leader, Barack Obama. In return, Obama respects the input of each of his campaign leaders. Just as the Pokemon trainer (Obama) heals his Pokemon, cures them of status effects, and feeds them Poffins, the Pokemon (the campaign staff) fight for the trainer and take down the opposition (McCain). Synchronization is the key to group success.

In contrast was the campaign of Hillary Clinton. Some of her campaign leaders upheld their own egos and sought their own personal gain. Often this would cause meetings to erupt in bitter arguments. An example I can't resist sharing is Geraldine Ferraro. A former congresswoman from the state of New York and the only woman to have ever been a vice-presidential candidate, Ferraro became a part of Clinton's finance committee. On March 7th, she made the comment about Obama that,

"If Obama was a white man, he would not be in this position. And if he was a woman he would not be in this position. He happens to be very lucky to be who he is. And the country is caught up in the concept."

What's worse is that in 1984, Ferraro had previously made another racial comment directed towards Jesse Jackson. To reapply Pokemon analogies, Hillary Clinton chose a Pokemon (Ferraro) that just didn't work out. In fact, as a Pokemon trainer, she should've known the Pokemon's dangerous history. In the end, the Pokemon trainer (Hillary Clinton) had to put the Pokemon away in her PC (repudiate Ferraro's comment) and release it back into the wild (Ferraro's resignation from Clinton's campaign).

To focus back on Joe Biden as Obama's running mate, Biden covers many of Obama's weaknesses. Biden's advantages are,

1) He brings experience to a campaign criticized for Obama's inexperience and young age. Biden is a six-term senator from Delaware, the sixth longest term served by any current senator. At age 65, he also adds age to Obama's ticket, who is just 47. He's also been involved in crime laws and legislation as a member of the U.S. Senate Committee on the Judiciary.

2) He has foreign relations connections and experience where Obama does not. As the chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, he's already familiar with world leaders. Just within the last week, the president of Georgia invited Biden to visit during the country's tension with Russia.

3) He is Roman Catholic which may sway a large portion of voters. He was also born in a working-class family in Pennsylvania, an important swing state. Obama has had trouble gaining the support of working-class voters in the past.

To switch back to Pokemon language, Obama as a Pokemon trainer chooses a Pokemon (Biden) that is strong on the fronts where Obama is not (experience, foreign relations). As a smart Pokemon trainer, Obama covers his type weaknesses (Catholics, working-class voters, Pennsylvania) by choosing Biden. This is much smarter than choosing a running-mate whose only selling point is "change". After all, it only takes one Blastoise (John McCain) to take down an entire team of Charizards (Obama).

Did this post make any sense at all?

Geraldine's piece was incredibly well-received. It is so haunting, so evocative, with traces of Celtic majesty. How fortunate we are to have her on board -  

Now she stands and stares.

Flaxen hair,

strays wildly from her crimson cloak.

Hands cold with fear.

Clutching the rails of the

 Widow’s Walk.

Breath comes hard.

Fighting her greatest fear.

Don’t wait for me
I’ve given all I’ve got
It’s just not in me
To try to be the man I’m not
Can’t we be fair
Seems like we’re going nowhere
Go ahead and keep the door shut
And keep the good ol’ memories

The days rushed past me as if they no longer exist bringing in silent nights, hiding me in their shadows. Words whispered in passing, often scattered by my window. They spoke of faded roses and thoughtless lovers.Gloomy dreams stormed into my heart gently cracking the anguished waterfalls, ready to push out of my skin. I let them go but they remained inside, waiting.

She struggled to hold her breath but her lungs ached for more air.  She was not sure if she had closed her eyes or that she had blacked out because she could only see darkness in front of her.  She could only feel the current, the water beating against her body, tossing her about like a toy.

[por Rubén Uría]

La pelea tiene lugar en Miami, Florida. Es 25 de febrero. De un lado, Charles Sonny Liston, ex presidiario vinculado a la mafia y campeón del mundo. En la otra esquina, el aspirante Cassius Clay, un joven de color charlatán, atrevido y con algunas conexiones todavía no oficiales con los musulmanes negros del Islam. Malcom X, ministro de la Nación del Islam, consigue un asiento de primera fila, el número siete, cerca del rincón del aspirante. Es entonces cuando resuena un grito seco, directo, desgarrador, de un aficionado: ‘Sonny, mata a ese negro bocazas!!’. El público rompe a rugir. El ambiente se caldea. La hora de la verdad se acerca. Momento escogido por Clay para su última fanfarronada. Se acerca a Liston y le señala su cinturón de campeón. ‘¿Para qué quieres eso Sonny? ¿Para sujetarte los pantalones?’. La mirada de Liston se tiñe de sangre. La de Clay se pierde en el tendido, embelesado por los gritos de jaleo de los vecinos de Miami.

Suena la campana y Liston, según guión previsto, se lanza al centro del ring para descargar una serie de derechazos capaces de reventar la cabeza de un elefante. Ninguno conecta con el cuerpo de Clay, que se desplaza un lado a otro del ring con facilidad, con armonía, con unos movimientos tan sincronizados que terminan por dejar en ridículo al campeón. El tañir de la campana marca el final del primer asalto y los presentes en el estadio de Miami empiezan a mirarse unos a otros. Clay, la oruga que esperaba no ser pisoteada por Liston, se transforma por momentos en mariposa. ‘Vuela como mariposa, pica como abeja’, como había profetizado. La prensa no sale de su asombro. El Clay que imaginaban era huidizo. Rápido, sí, pero con algodón en los puños. El Clay que sus ojos perseguían por el cuadrilátero no se parecía en nada a esa versión augurada. Tenía un martillo pilón por jab, unos hombros tan enormes como los de Liston, un juego de pies eléctrico y una espalda tan ancha como la del campeón. Se hizo el silencio en la primera fila.

Segundo asalto y tercer asalto. Liston no encuentra la manera de entrar en la distancia corta, persigue fantasmas y Clay sigue fustigándole con esquivas fulgurantes que hacen que el campeón parezca una pata en un baile. El murmullo no cesa antes del cuarto. Clay sigue en pie, ha enchufado varias manos en el rostro de Liston y el campeón se muestra impotente ante un chico más joven, más rápido y más decidido que él. Se escucha el flash de cámara fotográfica. Un grito enardecido de varios cientos de aficionados que han cambiado de caballo a mitad del río. Incluso la nerviosa bocanada de humo que exhala el puro de uno de los incrédulos promotores de Liston. Y hasta el suspiro de una rubia platino que abraza el brazo de un gángster en primera fila.

Cassius Clay se sienta en su taburete al final del cuarto, otea el horizonte, mira de refilón a su esquina y se dirige a su entrenador Angelo Bundee. ‘No veo nada, me han puesto algo en los ojos’. Bundee no responde, Clay se bloquea y el combate entra en una fase de indefinición. La esquina de Liston no es ajena a la escena. Esperan la decisión de Clay. Esperan ver a Bundee arrojando la toalla. El aspirante amaga con abandonar, Bundee le persuade, le echa agua fría en los ojos y escupe un par de frases cortas dirigidas a su pupilo: ‘No tendrás otra oportunidad. Sal y no pares de correr’. Cassius asiente con cara de cordero degollado y se prepara para correr una maratón alrededor de Liston. El campeón lanza rayos de izquierda y truenos de derecha, pero no consigue dañar seriamente al aspirante, que soporta estoicamente el castigo y vuelve algo más despejado a su esquina. Está vivo. Sabe que Liston ha tirado todo lo que tiene. Exhausto por el esfuerzo, abriendo la boca, jadeando, aspirando hondo, Clay detiene el mundo con la mirada. Está listo para cazar un oso feo y perezoso. Liston se lleva la mano al hombro. Parece cansado. Clay exige el protector bucal y mete prisa a su entrenador. Sabe que el quinto asalto es su oportunidad.

Clay sale a por todas. Mete la quinta velocidad y empieza a conectar golpes en serie, castigando arriba y abajo a Liston, que se mantiene inmóvil en el centro del ring. El campeón empieza a tardar en responder al zafarrancho de combate de Clay, comienza a pagar su y el hecho de no haberse cuidado mucho para la pelea. Clay descarga un uno-dos frenético. Luego un gancho de izquierda. Otro uno-dos. Otro. Otro. Y otro. No hay respuesta del campeón, que se marcha a su rincón cariacontecido, apesadumbrado, fatigado, dolorido. En silencio.

Al final del sexto, Liston abandona. La prensa traga saliva, se frota los ojos y el público estalla en una ovación de júbilo. El campeón cae por K.O técnico y Clay es el nuevo rey de los pesos pesados. Cassius conoce la noticia y sale disparado de su esquina como un resorte, corriendo hacia todos los lados como un pollo sin cabeza, sin dejar de gritar a los periodistas: ‘Ahora os tragaréis vuestras palabras! Soy el campeón del mundo! He cazado al oso feo y perezoso! Soy el más grande!’. Aquel niñato presuntuoso de Louisville saboreaba su victoria ufano, henchido de orgullo, eufórico, mientras las máquinas de escribir de los periodistas echaban humo. No sólo era una victoria contra pronóstico de Clay, sino una humillación en toda regla para el mito del campeón, que de siniestro ex presidiario había pasado, en seis asaltos, a ser un tipo cuya hombría y reputación estaban en el aire después de abandonar por el castigo sufrido. Nadie daba crédito. El presunto funeral de Clay era el nacimiento de una estrella, y el presunto dinero fácil para Liston se trocaba en el derrumbamiento, inesperado, del ex presidiario. Una conmoción que recorría todos y cada uno de los rincones de los Estados Unidos de América. Nadie sabía cómo tomar aquella sorpresa. Cuando todos parecían tener las respuestas, les cambiaron las preguntas.

Clay era el nuevo campeón. Liston, el gran perdedor. El gran oso feo alegó que estaba lesionado, el médico de la comisión de boxeo le detectó una distensión muscular en el hombro, pero nadie le creyó. No había perdón para un tipo que no conocía el significado de esa palabra. La cara de Liston era el espejo de su alma. Su rostro se había convertido en una masa de carne desfigurada. Un drama en carne viva. Un conjunto de moratones, bultos y cortes adornado por una boca ensangrentada, una nariz dolorida y dos ojos a punto de cerrarse. Buscaba lágrimas pero no las encontraba. Dicen que no existe peor drama peor para un campeón del mundo de los pesos pesados.

Cerca de los vestuarios del abatido Liston, tiene lugar la esperada y triunfante rueda de prensa de Cassius Clay. El campeón reparte estopa para la prensa, saca pecho por su victoria y guarda, como bomba informativa, una primicia que con el paso del tiempo, cambiaría el signo de su vida. Allí el nuevo campeón del peso pesado hace pública su pertenencia a la Nación del Islam, y anuncia que jamás volverán a dirigirse a su persona con el nombre de Cassius Marcellus Clay Junior. El campeón proclama su nueva identidad: Muhammad Alí. Aquellas dos palabras elevarían a un boxeador a subirse, de por vida, a un terremoto de cruentas batallas, dentro y fuera del ring. Ya no sería Cassius el esclavo de los blancos, sino Muhammad, el azote de los blancos. Ya no sería Clay, el boxeador de los negros, sino Alí, el líder espiritual de los negros. Algo más que un boxeador. Mucho más que un simple hombre. Una leyenda.

Después de aquella noche, Liston no volvió a ser el mismo. Tuvo su revancha ante Clay el 25 de agosto de 1965, en Lewinston, una pequeña ciudad del estado de Maine. Allí, sazonado por un brutal récord de taquilla, Liston cayó fulminado en el primer asalto por un golpe que nadie acertó a ver – salvo el escritor Norman Mailer- y que la prensa bautizó como ‘el golpe fantasma’. Después de aquel relampagueante nocaut, Liston nunca volvió a ser el mismo. Se consumió sobre el ring con un par de combates en Europa. Hizo otro par de peleas de poca monta en Estados Unidos y terminó engullido por la vorágine de su calamitosa vida.

Un frío 30 de diciembre de 1970, su esposa Geraldine lo encontró muerto en su casa de Las Vegas. Había ido de visita a casa de su madre, y a su regreso se chocó con el cadáver de su marido, que yacía en el suelo, y que llevaba dos días muerto. La versión oficial de los médicos consistió en un comunicado de prensa en el que se informaba de que la autopsia revelaba un paro cardíaco por sobredosis de heroína. La versión oficiosa de los soplones de la policía no encajaba con la tesis de los galenos. Sonny siempre había estado rodeado de mafiosos, de tipos peligrosos, de gente sin escrúpulos. Muchos rumores apuntaron a un asesinato. Pudo ser un ajuste de cuentas. Nunca se pudo probar nada.

[ por Rubén Uría]

Comediante o visionario, Clay se hace acreedor a su apodo de ‘Bocazas de Lousville’ y lanza un atronador ataque verbal contra el ex presidiario Liston. Cassius entiende que para ganar la pelea dentro del ring, el primer paso es ganarse el respeto fuera del mismo. Cavila que en el boxeo, el primer paso para ganar un combate es ganar el respeto del público y lograr que el rival pierda el suyo. Ignorando las advertencias de sus promotores, Clay abandera una guerra psicológica sin precedentes que se cuela, sin remisión, en la piel de los americanos. Si ve una cámara de televisión se tira de cabeza, si tiene cerca un micrófono de radio se pregunta a la vez que se responde, y si un reportero no ha tomado buena nota de su rajada, decide escribirlo él mismo de su puño y letra. Clay sabe que, en esa guerra, en los medios de comunicación, Liston no tiene protección. Intuye que quien golpea primero golpea dos veces, y sigue convencido de que Liston, el ‘oso feo y perezoso’ se siente incómodo peleando con la lengua en vez de con los puños.

Acierta de pleno. Liston, hombre de pocas palabras y escaso bagaje cultural, empieza a sentirse devorado, poco a poco, por la incansable catarata de egolatría y difusión del huracán mediático Cassius Clay. El ‘Loco de Louisville’ abre la caja de Pandora. Amenaza, rima, grita, canta, salta, baila, alardea y reta. Todo Clay es un ‘show’ de circo. Una comedia con ínfulas de campeón que destroza, una y otra vez, el orgullo de Liston. Lo hace sin piedad. Con sarcasmo. Con una vehemencia propia de un loco, o de un cobarde.

Cuenta la historia que el campeón acababa de mudarse a Denver, y justo enfrente de su casa apareció Clay montado en un extraño autobús que se había comprado para la ocasión. Pintado de rojo y blanco, como en la película ‘Más dura será la caída’, Clay decide colgar del mismo un cartel gigantesco con la leyenda: ‘Liston caerá en el octavo’. Después, sin tregua, avisa a todos los periodistas de la zona y les aconseja que a primera hora de la tarde deben pasar por casa de Liston. Cumpliendo su amenaza, Clay se presenta a la hora indicada en el hall de la casa de Liston, toca el timbre y, cuando tiene cara a cara al campeón, descarga sobre él un buen puñado de insultos, para acto seguido, retarle a pelear en el jardín. Liston, estupefacto, no sale de su asombro. La prensa, tampoco. Los únicos en reaccionar ante el encendido Clay son un grupo de vecinos, que deciden actuar por su cuenta y riesgo y llaman inmediatamente a la policía, que detiene a Clay ipso facto. La imagen, dantesca, da la vuelta al mundo.

Clay enseña todas sus dotes de ‘showman’. Su boca se convierte en una especie de Rey Midas. Periodista que toca, artículo que convierte en oro. En portada. En titular. En amenaza. Corren ríos de tinta sobre Clay, que incluso llega a presentarse en uno de los entrenamientos privados de Liston para, rodeado de una buena corte de periodistas, lanzarle un buen puñado de improperios. No hay quien pueda frenar la lengua de Clay. Lleva el escándalo allá donde va. Un día deja ver su lado narciso: ‘Liston no puede ser el campeón del mundo de los pesos pesados. Es demasiado feo y gordo. En cambio, yo soy guapo’. Otro, su perfil retador: ‘Está viejo, es lento y está cansado. Soy más fuerte y rápido. Soy el campeón’. Al siguiente, explota su versión profética: ‘Sonny ¿me oyes? Quiero que me escuches bien. Eres un oso. Un oso feo y perezoso, y te voy a cazar. Que me escuche el mundo. Voy a salir a cazar un oso feo y perezoso’. Más tarde, aparece el Clay soberbio: ‘¿Humildad? Soy demasiado grande como para ser humilde. Soy lo maxxxxximo’. Deja entrever al Cassius sarcástico: ‘Sé que los que apuestan pondrán mucho dinero para ver a qué hora me ingresarán en el hospital, pero después del combate sólo se encontrarán allí con el oso feo y perezoso. Yo estaré en casa, viendo una película’. Seguido del fanfarrón: ‘Liston, debieron explicarte que el boxeo es un deporte de riesgo’. Por supuesto, ingenioso: ‘Soy tan rápido que anoche apagué la luz y me metí en la cama antes de que el cuarto se quedara a oscuras’. Pero ante todo, provocador: ‘Vuelo como una mariposa pero pico como una abeja’. Una frase lapidaria que encerraba una profecía.

Aquel imparable acoso de Clay a través de los medios de comunicación, aquel pandemónium mediático repleto de descalificaciones hacia Liston, consigue el efecto esperado por el joven Cassius. La afición le tacha de loco, los periodistas de fanfarrón, la esquina de Liston de niño asustado y la mafia, de atracción de circo. Pero nadie repara en el estado de forma de Clay. Por descontado, el campeón tampoco. Bastante tiene el ex presidiario con calmar su enfado mayúsculo. Liston anda obsesionado con cerrar la boca del descarado aspirante. De hecho, el entorno de Sonny intenta, en vano, aplacar la furia contenida del campeón, que jura dejar la cara de Clay como un mapa durante el primer asalto. Ese deseo de Liston se transforma después en un estado de ansiedad, y más tarde, durante la ceremonia de pesaje, en una cuestión personal. La prensa relata que mientras Liston se despoja de su ropa para subir a la báscula, Clay se convierte en un manojo de nervios cuya boca explota en todas direcciones. Pierde los nervios, empuja a todo el mundo, insulta a su rival y grita cada vez más. Está rabioso, fuera de sí, a punto de sacar espumarajos por la boca. La escena sube tanto de tono que los allí presentes deciden separar a ambos púgiles y por orden directa de sus mentores, Angelo Dundee y ‘Bundini’ Brown, Clay es obligado a tranquilizarse visitando al médico. La exploración médica diagnostica que Cassius Clay es víctima de un ataque de pánico. Quizá acobardado, quizá acalorado, quizá envalentonado, las voces de Clay rebasan tantos decibelios que recibe una cuantiosa multa de escarmiento: dos mil quinientos dólares del ala por escándalo público.

[Continuará]