I love subtle worlds...*
Oct. 11th, 2007 04:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bending_sickle...wightless and kind, / like soap bubbles.*
I've been trying to study statistics, really, I have. I awoke from the sleep of the dead** round 10, after a thoroughly unproductive evening yesterday. Honestly, I didn't even procrastinate well. After making those sorry icons - the sushi-one being the only one of which I am proud - I lazed about on YouTube. I watched a few Placebo music videos and a few John Simm clips*** (which later resurfaced in hazy dream-conscious, which, considering the clips, was wonderful).
Today, after sticking my printouts into a binder (with two**** hoops, 'cause this is Europe, yo) and reveling in the glow of achievement that brought on, I've been typing out clean versions of my notes.
That and listening to music on YouTube. I went through a Blackmoores Night stretch, with the gorgeous song and fanvid Wish You Were Here:
Have now discovered The Bard of Cornwall. A niceredhead ginger bloke who sings in his kitchen and has a beautiful old-style voice just perfect for traditional Celtic ballads and similar. Watch Four Green Fields:
Oh, yes, there've been tears too.
Also, just for the hell of it, my favorite Spanish poem (not that I'm well-versed in Spanish poetry in general) Cantares (aka. Caminante no hay camino) by Antonio Machado (i.e. "Perhaps his most famous work [...] from "Proverbios y cantares XXIX" in Campos de Castilla.", Wiki). I've known it forever as Joan Manuel Serrat put it to music (and here's the live version of my childhood), and could probably recite most of it. Translated below, by me, with help from the wordreference forum thread and Havana. Appallingly literal and unadapted, but hey, I'm procrastinating here.
Songs (Wanderer, there is no road)
Everything passes and everything stays,
But our way is to pass,
pass making paths,
paths upon the sea.
I never sought glory,
nor to leave my song
in the memory of men;
I love subtle worlds,
wightless and kind,
like soap bubbles.
I like seeing them paint themselves
of sun and grain, fly
beneath the blue sky, temble
suddenly and break...
I never sought glory.
Wanderer, it's your footprints
which are the path and nothing more;
wanderer, there is no path,
the path is made by walking.
Walking makes the path
and upon looking back
one sees the path that must never
be stepped again.
Wanderer there is no path
but wakes in the sea...
Some time ago in that place
where today the woods are clothes in hawthorne
was heard a poet's voice shouting
"Wanderer there is no path,
the path is made by walking..."
Strike by strike, verse by verse...
The poet dies far from home.
A neighbouring country's dust covers him.
As he moved away they saw him cry.
"Wanderer there is no path,
the path is made by walking..."
"Caminante no hay camino,
Strike by strike, verse by verse...
When the goldfinch can't sing.
When the poet is a pilgrim.
When praying's no use to us.
"Wanderer there is no path,
the path is made by walking..."
Strike by strike, verse by verse.
Other translations are:
Wanderer, the only way
is your footsteps, there is no other.
Wanderer, there is no way,
you make the way as you go.
As you go, you make the way
and stopping to look behind,
you see the path that your feet
will never travel again.
Wanderer, there is no way—
only foam trails in the sea.
* Cantares, Antonio Machado (translated by me)
** You know the kind, where the mere idea of consciousness makes you sink deeper into the mattress, haggard and limp, thinking you could happily never wake again.
*** Sex Traffic Clip 1, Part 1, Clip 1, Part 2, Human Traffic Clip 1: Go, Jip, go!, Clip 2: Mr Floppy, Lakes Clip 2, Clip 3, Miranda Clip 1: Simm sings strange lyrics
**** Two's the normal number in Europe, except for some wierd Dutch binders which have, like, a gazillion. I can't help imagining the horrible and bloody consequenes of catching your finger in that bear trap.
I've been trying to study statistics, really, I have. I awoke from the sleep of the dead** round 10, after a thoroughly unproductive evening yesterday. Honestly, I didn't even procrastinate well. After making those sorry icons - the sushi-one being the only one of which I am proud - I lazed about on YouTube. I watched a few Placebo music videos and a few John Simm clips*** (which later resurfaced in hazy dream-conscious, which, considering the clips, was wonderful).
Today, after sticking my printouts into a binder (with two**** hoops, 'cause this is Europe, yo) and reveling in the glow of achievement that brought on, I've been typing out clean versions of my notes.
That and listening to music on YouTube. I went through a Blackmoores Night stretch, with the gorgeous song and fanvid Wish You Were Here:
Have now discovered The Bard of Cornwall. A nice
Oh, yes, there've been tears too.
Also, just for the hell of it, my favorite Spanish poem (not that I'm well-versed in Spanish poetry in general) Cantares (aka. Caminante no hay camino) by Antonio Machado (i.e. "Perhaps his most famous work [...] from "Proverbios y cantares XXIX" in Campos de Castilla.", Wiki). I've known it forever as Joan Manuel Serrat put it to music (and here's the live version of my childhood), and could probably recite most of it. Translated below, by me, with help from the wordreference forum thread and Havana. Appallingly literal and unadapted, but hey, I'm procrastinating here.
Songs (Wanderer, there is no road)
Everything passes and everything stays,
But our way is to pass,
pass making paths,
paths upon the sea.
I never sought glory,
nor to leave my song
in the memory of men;
I love subtle worlds,
wightless and kind,
like soap bubbles.
I like seeing them paint themselves
of sun and grain, fly
beneath the blue sky, temble
suddenly and break...
I never sought glory.
Wanderer, it's your footprints
which are the path and nothing more;
wanderer, there is no path,
the path is made by walking.
Walking makes the path
and upon looking back
one sees the path that must never
be stepped again.
Wanderer there is no path
but wakes in the sea...
Some time ago in that place
where today the woods are clothes in hawthorne
was heard a poet's voice shouting
"Wanderer there is no path,
the path is made by walking..."
Strike by strike, verse by verse...
The poet dies far from home.
A neighbouring country's dust covers him.
As he moved away they saw him cry.
"Wanderer there is no path,
the path is made by walking..."
"Caminante no hay camino,
Strike by strike, verse by verse...
When the goldfinch can't sing.
When the poet is a pilgrim.
When praying's no use to us.
"Wanderer there is no path,
the path is made by walking..."
Strike by strike, verse by verse.
Other translations are:
Wanderer, the only way
is your footsteps, there is no other.
Wanderer, there is no way,
you make the way as you go.
As you go, you make the way
and stopping to look behind,
you see the path that your feet
will never travel again.
Wanderer, there is no way—
only foam trails in the sea.
* Cantares, Antonio Machado (translated by me)
** You know the kind, where the mere idea of consciousness makes you sink deeper into the mattress, haggard and limp, thinking you could happily never wake again.
*** Sex Traffic Clip 1, Part 1, Clip 1, Part 2, Human Traffic Clip 1: Go, Jip, go!, Clip 2: Mr Floppy, Lakes Clip 2, Clip 3, Miranda Clip 1: Simm sings strange lyrics
**** Two's the normal number in Europe, except for some wierd Dutch binders which have, like, a gazillion. I can't help imagining the horrible and bloody consequenes of catching your finger in that bear trap.
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Date: 2007-10-12 12:29 am (UTC)Really, 2 rings for a binder? I guess it makes sense... I wouldn't trust myself around Dutch binders the way things are going with my braian xD